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HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


THE  STORY  OF  THYRZA 


SHE   FELT   SQDDENLf  QUITE   HAPPY 


(page  249) 


THE 


STORY  OF  THYRZA 


BY 

ALICE  BKOWN 

WITH  A  FRONTISPIECE  BY 
ALICE   BARBER  STEPHENS 


BOSTON    AND    NEW    YORK 

HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN    COMPANY 

1909 


COPYRIGHT,    1909,   BY   ALICE   BROWN 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  March  TQOQ 


FIFTH    IMPRESSION 


CONTENTS 


I.   THE  SACRIFICE  . 1 

II.   THE  KIVAL  HOUSES         .         .         .         .         29 

III.  THE  GOLDEN  APPLE  .         .         .         .55 

IV.  THE  KNIGHT  OF  ELD      .         .         .         .         83 
V.   THE  LETTERS 109 

VI.   TROY  TAVERN 134 

VII.   THE  KETURN 163 

VIII.   THE  DISCOVERY 193 

IX.   THE  WISE  YOUNG  JUDGE  .         .         .         .217 

X.   THE  GIRL 245 

XI.   A  KNIGHT  PEERLESS  ....  272 

XII.   THE  SISTERS  .  300 


228608 


THE  STORY  OF  THYRZA 

i 

THE  SACKIFICE 


XT  was  a  warm  afternoon  in  the  spring  of  the  year. 
Thyrza  Tennant,  aged  nine,  walking  beside  the 
teacher  and  multiplying  steps  to  keep  up,  was  con 
scious  of  excitement  in  the  wind,  and,  for  those  who 
were  more  fortunately  placed  than  she  had  found  her 
self,  a  sense  of  things  to  be.  She  was  shaken  in  her 
feelings,  too,  because  the  tragically  unexpected  had 
come  to  pass.  She  who  never  "  missed "  had  been 
wrecked  on  the  present  subjunctive  of  the  verb  "to 
have,"  and  the  teacher  had  told  her  that,  if  it  were 
not  so  near  Last  Day  and  eleven  pieces  to  be  re 
hearsed,  she  would  have  had  to  stay  after  school  and 
recite  the  entire  conjugation.  As  it  was,  she  might 
be  excused,  only  she  must  be  sure  to  prepare  the  les 
son  at  home  and  be  ready  with  it  in  the  morning. 

Thyrza  was  very  little,  and  as  her  mother  dressed 
her  "bare  neck  and  short  sleeves,"  as  the  saying  was, 
all  the  delicate  bones  of  her  brown  throat  were  visi 
ble.  She  looked,  Andy  McAdam  had  said,  in  a  brutal 
repetition  of  a  phrase  applied  to  her  at  his  house, 
"  like  a  picked  chicken." 

1 


;T 0 £'  S'T'OK Y   OF    THYRZA 

Andy  had  dismissed  the  qualification  as  soon  as  he 
had  made  it,  and  went  joyously  about  his  own  partic 
ular  boy  affairs ;  but  Thyrza  never  forgot.  When  she 
heard  it,  she  ran  into  the  darkened  parlor  where  she 
could  spend  a  long  time  unregarded  before  the  glass, 
and  stared  at  herself  in  a  sickened  questioning.  Her 
dark  eyes  were  very  large  and  her  face  was  thin. 
When  she  looked  at  it  in  the  parlor  glass  it  took  on 
a  livid  pallor  from  the  green  slats  of  the  inner  blinds. 
It  seemed  to  her  unspeakably  horrible  to  look  like  a 
picked  chicken,  and  now,  on  her  walk  home  from 
school,  seeing  the  sturdy  back  of  Andy  as  he  trudged 
in  front  of  her  in  a  care-free  intimacy  with  her  sister 
Laura,  banging  Laura  with  his  strap  of  books  when 
it  pleased  him  to  do  so,  and  accepting  a  kindred  blow 
with  a  fraternal  cheerfulness,  the  hot  blood  ran  up  to 
her  face  again,  as  she  thought  that  if  he  were  called 
upon  to  define  fat  and  pleasant  Laura's  sister,  he  need 
only  say,  "  Oh,  she  looks  like  a  picked  chicken!" 

Rosie  May  Pelton  had  the  teacher's  hand  on  that 
homeward  walk.  She  strutted  a  little,  and  occasionally 
peered  round  at  Thyrza  to  note  whether  she  minded 
renouncing  a  similar  distinction  on  the  other  side,  be 
cause,  with  that  hand,  teacher  carried  her  parasol. 
But  Thyrza  had  not  expected  such  advancement,  even 
if  she  had  been  able  to  give  her  present  subjunctive 
parts  with  honor.  She  adored  the  teacher,  and  every 
day  brought  her  nosegays  with  a  stiff  back  of  cedar ; 
but  she  had  no  spirit  for  seizing  upon  power  and 
place  in  homeward  walks.  That  night  the  teacher 

2 


THE   SACRIFICE 


was  absent-minded.  She  thought  of  a  letter  she  had 
had,  and  of  an  approaching  marriage-day,  and  Thyrza, 
waiting  upon  her  moods,  felt  her  remoteness  and 
chilled  under  it.  This  being  of  her  affections  seemed 
often  mysteriously  removed  to  some  peak  where  little 
girls  could  never  climb.  Rosie  May,  who  also  saw 
they  were  not  to  be  talked  to  that  night,  and  perhaps 
not  even  listened  to,  began  a  soft  undertone  to 
Thyrza. 

"  There  's  goin'  to  be  a  concert  over  to  the  Cor 


ners." 


"  I  know  it,"  said  Thyrza.  She  was  venturing  to 
avow  an  equal  knowledge,  though  Rosie  May,  she  was 
aware,  expected  her  to  take  the  news  as  news  and  show 
herself  courteously  attentive. 

Rosie  May  had  all  the  prettiness  Thyrza  lacked ; 
her  looks  were  a  strange  reversal  of  Thyrza's  own, 
and  she  seemed  to  know  it.  Thyrza's  black  hair  was 
straight  and  Rosie  May's  curled  up  into  little  rings  that 
looked  all  alive  like  vine-tendrils  in  the  wind.  Her  lips 
were  full,  and  Thyrza's  were  thin,  and  she  had  no 
freckles  on  her  nose.  Once  she  had  looked  at  Thyrza 
a  long  time,  in  a  way  she  had,  and  then  said  with  the 
meditative  brutality  of  a  woman  grown  to  age  but 
not  to  kindliness,  — 

"  You  and  I  look  some  alike,  Thyrza,  only  we  're 
different." 

And  Thyrza  hated  her,  not  for  being  different  but 
for  knowing  she  was. 

"  It 's  an  Old  Folks'  Concert,"  said  Rosie  May. 

3 


THE   STORY  OF   THYRZA 

"  Yes,  I  know  it,"  countered  Thyrza.  She  was  over 
stepping,  she  knew,  and  Rosie  May  would  pay  her 
out  for  it  next  day,  but  the  desperate  unhappiness 
of  the  afternoon  had  warped  her  patience. 

"Aunt  Hattie  Ann  's  goin'  to  sing,"  said  Rosie  May. 
"  Any  your  folks  goin'  to  sing  ?" 

Thyrza  longed  to  say  that  she  had  heard  the  doc 
tor  and  the  minister  together  lament  over  the  voice 

o 

and  the  ear  of  aunt  Hattie  Ann,  and  wonder  how 
they  could  get  her  out  of  the  seats.  She  had  been 
lying  in  a  bed  of  roadside  brake  and  playing  dead, 
and  they  had  paused  there,  in  the  heat  of  their  dis 
cussion,  for  a  view  of  the  mountain,  and  the  minis 
ter  himself,  though  he  had  laughed  after  he  said  it, 
had  told  the  doctor  that  Hattie  Ann  Pelton  was  to 
his  mind  no  better  than  a  bull  of  Bashan.  Thyrza 
had  never  repeated  that  saying,  even  to  Laura,  but 
she  remembered  it  sometimes  when  she  was  afraid  at 
night,  and  put  it  away  with  the  picked  chicken  as  too 
terrible  to  think  about  even  by  daylight.  What  would 
Rosie  May  say  now,  if  she  should  return  in  a  loud, 
bold  voice  so  that  the  teacher  herself  might  hear,  "  The 
minister  says  your  aunt  Hattie  Ann  sings  like  a  bull 
of  Bashan"?  But  she  did  not  venture,  though  she 
thought  so  hard  of  the  glorious  possibility  that  she 
failed  to  answer,  and  Rosie  May  put  another  question. 
"Any  your  folks  goin'  to  the  concert?" 
The  tone  of  her  voice  was  her  hateful  one.  Thyrza 
knew  it  quite  well,  what  it  recalled  and  what  it  por 
tended.  At  that  moment  she  loathed  it  so  much  that 

4 


THE   SACRIFICE 


she  answered  back  in  a  voice  loud  enough  for  even 
Andy  and  Laura  to  hear,  — 

"  Yes,  we  're  all  going." 

Rosie  May  was  shocked  out  of  her  wonted  calm. 

"  No,  you  're  not  either,"  she  declared  involuntarily. 

"Yes,  we  are  too,"  said  Thyrza.  Every  trace  of  color 
had  left  her  face.  She  set  her  lips  tightly  together  and 
her  throat  was  dry.  "I'm  going,  and  mother's  going, 
and  Laura's  going." 

"  Goin'  where  ? "  Laura  called  back  over  her 
shoulder ;  but  Andy  smote  her  so  skillfully  with  his 
arithmetic,  for  no  reason,  that  with  every  argument 
on  her  side,  she  fell  upon  him  and  required  no  an 
swer. 

"The  tickets  are  fifty  cents,"  Rosie  May  insinuated 
doubtingly. 

This  Thyrza  scorned  to  notice.  And  circumstances 
seemed  to  intend  her  rescue.  A  light  wagon  whirled 
by  and  the  youth  in  it  took  off  his  hat  with  a  courteous 
bend. 

"Ain't  he  just  elegant!"  breathed  Rosie  May,  al 
most  unctuously. 

"Who  is  he?"  asked  the  teacher,  coming  out  of 
her  dream. 

Rosie  May  answered  with  a  prim  correctness,  as  if 
she  were  in  class. 

"Barton  Gorse.  His  grandfather's  died  and  he's 
spendin'  the  summer  in  the  big  house.  All  alone  he 
is,  too." 

Now  they  were  turning  the  corner  by  the  great 

5 


THE   STORY    OF   THYRZA 

elder-bush,  and  when  the  vista  of  the  coming  road  lay 
before  them  Rosie  May  tittered. 

"Why,  Thyrza,"  said  she,  "there's  your  aunt." 

The  teacher  wakened  to  a  kindly  attention.  This 
was  her  first  term,  and  she  was  scrupulous  in  the 
courtesy  due  to  relatives. 

"Thyrza's  aunt?"  she  said.  "Why,  let  me  speak 
to  her." 

"  There  she  is  ahead,"  said  Rosie  May  piously. 
"  That 's  Thyrza's  aunt." 

"Why,  no,"  said  the  teacher,  with  an  innocent 
candor.  "  No,  that 's  some  little  girl." 

"  No  'm,"  repeated  Rosie  May,  "  it's  Thyrza's  aunt. 
Thyrza,  ain't  that  your  aunt? " 

Thyrza  could  not  answer.  She  looked  straight  be 
fore  her,  not  definitely  at  the  figure  hurrying  down 
the  road,  though  it  was  included  in  her  field  of 
sight.  She  knew  quite  well  what  she  should  see,  a 
little  woman  not  much  larger  than  a  child  because  she 
was  grotesquely  bent,  and  wearing  a  child's  hat  with 
long  blue  streamers,  behind.  It  was  a  hat  of  an  old 
fashion,  rescued  from  the  attic  and  loved  by  aunt 
Ellie  with  a  sudden  ardor  not  to  be  accounted  for. 
More  than  once  Mrs.  Tennant  had  hidden  it,  and 
given  her  a  respectable  sunbonnet  instead ;  but  Aunt 
Ellie  "had  wept  silently  and  made  herself  sick  with 
grief  until  they  gave  it  back  again. 

"  Well,  there !  "  Mrs.  Tennant  had  said  then  to 
the  children,  "  I  don't  know 's  it  does  anybody  any 
hurt.  She  might  as  well  wear  it,  far  's  I  know." 

6 


THE   SACRIFICE 


And  the  hat  again  in  her  grasp,  aunt  Ellie  had 
settled  down  delightedly  to  her  childish  occupations. 
Now,  as  Thyrza  walked  along,  her  sick  fancy  outran 
her  feet,  and  she  seemed  to  see  exactly  how  it  would 
be  when  they  overtook  aunt  Ellie.  The  teacher 
would  put  out  her  pretty  hand  and  say,  "  Is  this 
Thyrza's  aunt?"  It  would  be  impossible  to  think 
what  aunt  Ellie  would  do  then.  She  might  break 
into  a  low  giggle  and  hide  her  face  in  her  apron-. 
She  might  gravely  show  her  empty  pail,  and  say,  in 
her  childish  voice,,  "  Want  to  buy  any  plums?" 

But  Rosie  May  was  speaking. 

"Ain't  that  a  little  pail  she's  got ?  "  She  was  ask 
ing  it  still  out  of  that  specious  innocence. 

Thyrza's  heart  rose  again  in  her  throat,  beating  out 
a  hotter  hatred.  Rosie  May  knew  quite  well  that 
aunt  Ellie  carried  the  little  pail  summer  and  winter, 
whether  she  went  into  the  woods  for  berries,  or  poked 
off  down  the  road  when  trees  were  bare  and  came  home 
wondering  because  her  pail  was  empty.  They  were 
very  near  her  now,  and  to  Thyrza  the  world  was  a 
black  blur ;  though  she  heard  Rosie  May  speaking 
again,  she  had  no  strength  to  hate  her. 

"  Yes,"  her  enemy  was  saying,  "  it  must  be  Thyrza's 
aunt.  I  can  see  her  little  curls." 

At  that  Thyrza  remembered,  with  a  new  misery, 
how  she  had  prayed  to  God,  over  and  over  again,  that 
He  would  move  aunt  Ellie  to  do  up  her  hair.  The 
ring  of  stiff  grayish  curls  went  round  her  head,  one 
row  of  them.  They  were  tied  back  from  her  face  by 

7 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

a  velvet  snood,  the  little  pinched  face  with  the  vague 
appealing  eyes.  The  foremost  children  were  almost  on 
her  now,  and  Thyrza  was  sure  the  teacher  had  begun 
to  stretch  out  her  hand.  But  God  had  not  forgotten 
her.  Aunt  Ellie  turned.  She  gave  one  look  at  them, 
and  then,  after  an  instant's  halt,  like  a  creature  too 
frightened  to  act,  made  a  little  dash  at  the  stone- wall, 
fled  over  it  like  running  water  and  sped  along  the 
field  toward  home. 

"Why!"  said  the  teacher.  "Why!"  Then  she 
cast  a  sudden  glance  at  Thyrza,  stumbling  along  now, 
her  head  bent  low,  and  said  at  once,  "  Never  mind 
about  the  conjugation  to-night,  Thyrza.  You  '11  have 
time  enough  to-morrow." 

"  Yes'm,"  said  Thyrza.  "Good-night." 
She  too  turned  aside  and  climbed  the  stone-wall 
to  follow  wanly  home  after  aunt  Ellie.  She  did  not 
understand  why,  but  it  seemed  to  her  that  if  Rosie 
May  was  laughing  inside,  and  the  teacher  might  laugh 
out  in  a  minute,  when  Rosie  May  had  said  more 
things,  it  was  best  to  follow  aunt  Ellie.  Perhaps  they 
wouldn't  laugh  so  hard  then.  She  was  angry  with 
aunt  Ellie,  her  curls  and  her  little  pail,  but  somehow, 
too,  she  was  sorry  for  her,  sorry,  sorry.  She  came  out 
of  the  field  and  into  the  lane  just  as  aunt  Ellie  was 
going  in  at  the  back  door  of  the  dark  house  under  the 
elm.  The  garden  lay  in  front  of  the  house,  and  in  that 
Laura  and  Thyrza  had  each  a  bed.  The  rest  was  all 
a  sweet  tangle,  and  had  been  since  their  father  died. 
He  had  loved  flowers  with  a  devotion  the  neighbors 

8 


THE   SACRIFICE 


smiled  at ;  but  since  his  death  his  wife  had  been  too 
busy,  tailoring,  to  nurture  what  he  had  sown. 

Thyrza  ran  to  her  little  bed  now,  and  stooped  over 
it  before  going  into  the  house.  It  gave  her  a  mute 
comfort.  It  was  something  of  her  own,  and  Rosie  May 
had  never  seen  it.  Thyrza  spent  hours  over  the  flowery 
bed,  sometimes  mourning  its  misfortunes  and  then  try 
ing  to  amend  them  with  all  her  scanty  wisdom ;  and 
because  she  was  untiring,  the  plants  responded  to  her. 
Now  the  pain  in  her  heart  went  down  a  little,  and  she 
bent  and  plucked  out  a  lush  weed.  She  glanced  all 
about  to  see  that  nobody  was  near,  and  said  under  her 
breath,  "  Darlings  !  "  Thyrza  felt  her  cheek  hot  then. 
She  never  heard  that  word  used,  but  she  had  seen  it 
in  books,  and  it  was  beautiful  to  her.  She  looked  over 
at  Laura's  bed.  That  was  all  zinnias  and  nasturtiums, 
already,  though  the  spring  was  young,  growing  up  to 
weeds.  In  a  month,  she  knew,  it  would  be  choked  and 
riotous,  and  Laura  would  be  saying,  in  a  careless  imita 
tion  of  their  mother's  phrasing,  that  it  had  got  ahead 
of  her  after  all  and  might  as  well  go  now.  Then 
Thyrza  came  back  to  her  own  treasured  plot :  five  or 
six  perennials  rescued  from  the  wilderness  down  by 
the  fence,  some  careful  lines  of  coreopsis  and  mignon 
ette  just  out  of  the  ground.  "Darlings!"  she  said 
again. 

"  That  you,  Thyrza  ?  "  came  her  mother's  voice  from 
the  side  window  where  she  sat  sewing.  "  Where 's 
Laura?" 

Thyrza  went  up  the  path,  and  in  through  the 

9 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

kitchen.  Aunt  Ellie  sat  there,  singing  something 
about  "  Mary  across  the  wild  moor,"  a  tune  she  re 
membered  from  her  youth,  though  she  had  no  words 
now  to  fit  to  it  but  Mary's  name  over  and  over,  and 
"  across  the  wild  moor."  Thyrza,  hearing  her,  always 
thought  that  was  Mary's  name,  and  the  changeless 
repetition  of  it  was  like  the  call  of  ghosts  for  a  lost 
companion.  Now  she  could  not  look  at  aunt  Ellie. 
She  was  afraid  of  hating  her  as  she  did  Rosie 
May. 

Mrs.  Tennant  was  a  little  woman  with  black  eyes 
and  a  look  of  tense  anxiety  and  over-keen  apprehen 
sion,  which  were  all  for  the  possibility  of  not  being 
able  to  buy  the  next  barrel  of  flour.  She  sat  with  a 
table  at  her  right,  where  she  could  put  her  hand  on 
all  sorts  of  knowing  and  necessary  things,  now  a  but 
ton,  now  a  piece  of  canvas,  and  again  a  spool  of 
thread.  She  was  working,  as  she  always  seemed  to  be 
doing,  on  a  pair  of  thick  stubby  trousers,  and  Thyrza 
knew  they  were  later  to  encase  the  legs  of  Andy 
Me  Adam.  All  the  boys  in  the  township  had  their 
clothes  made  at  Mrs.  Tennant's.  Thyrza,  with  a  sort 
of  fascinated  proprietary  interest,  used  to  watch  the 
trousers  her  mother  had  wrought  walking  into  school 
or  church,  and  from  day  to  day  keep  track  of  their  for 
tunes.  Sometimes  she  would  announce  indifferently 
that  Tommy  Fiske  would  need  a  new  jacket  soon. 
"How'd  you  know?"  her  mother  would  inquire 
sharply,  thrift  gleaming  in  her  eye.  "He  got  his 
sleeve  burnt  on  the  stove,"  Thyrza  would  say.  Or, 

10 


THE   SACRIFICE 


"Andy  tore  his  collar.  I  don't  believe  they  can  mend 
it.  He  '11  have  to  have  a  velvet  one." 

"Where's  Laura?"  repeated  Mrs.  Tennant,  look 
ing  up  from  her  work. 

"  She's  coming.  She  came  round  the  road." 

"Did  n't  you  come  by  the  road  ?  " 

"  No/'  said  Thyrza.  "  I  crossed  the  lot." 

"  What  made  you  do  that  ?  " 

"I  don't  know."  She  was  sure  that  was  quite  true. 
It  would  have  been  impossible  to  tell  what  strand  of 
power,  twisted  of  sorrow  for  aunt  Ellie  and  of  hide 
ous  shame,  had  dragged  her  out  of  the  accustomed 
way  and  home  across  the  field.  She  sat  down  on  the 
foot  of  the  cloth-covered  sofa  where  Trot,  the  maltee, 
was  curled  into  a  cushion  from  which  she  had  just 
stretched  one  paw,  the  claws  luxuriously  curved. 
Thyrza  watched  her  mother's  hand  guiding  the  short 
thread  and  snapping  sharply  back  and  forth.  She 
spoke  suddenly,  irresistibly  constrained. 

"  Mother,  should  n't  you  like  to  go  to  the  Old 
Folks' Concert?" 

Mrs.  Tennant  paused  an  instant  to  run  her  needle 
cruelly  through  an  emery  bag.  At  the  same  moment, 
she  glanced  up  over  her  spectacles  at  Thyrza. 

"Mercy,  no!"  she  said.  "What's  got  that  into 
your  head?" 

Thyrza  put  out  a  hand  to  the  cat,  who  immediately 
turned  on  her  side  in  purring  welcome. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "Somebody  was  talk 
ing  about  it." 

11 


THE   STORY   or   THYRZA 

"I've  got  other  things  to  do  besides  go  to  Old 
Folks'  Concerts/'  said  Mrs.  Tennant.  She  held  up 
the  little  square  thick  trousers  before  her  and  frowned 
at  them.  Then,  in  an  onslaught  of  haste,  she  began 
to  sew  again. 

Laura  came  in  at  the  back  door  and  stood  looking 
placidly  about,  her  dinner-pail  in  hand.  She  was  a 
pretty,  solid  little  girl,  with  brown  eyes  un  visited  by 
Thyrza's  sparks  and  tremors,  and  a  neat  foot  and 
hand.  There  was  something  complete  about  Laura. 
It  was  a  physical  perfection  and  fullness  that,  with 
out  beauty,  made  her  extremely  pleasing  to  the  eye 
and  mind.  Thyrza  looked  at  her  sharply.  She  was 
thinking  how  she  had  missed  on  the  present  sub 
junctive,  and  of  her  own  certainty  that,  tragic  as  it 
was,  Laura  had  quite  forgotten  it.  Laura  had  these 
strange  ideas  of  values.  Then  Thyrza  turned  to  her 
mother  and  offered  explosively,  — 

"I  missed." 

"You  hand  me  that  bastin'  thread,"  said  Mrs. 
Tennant  absorbedly,  pointing  out  a  spool  that  seemed 
to  have  strayed  to  the  edge  of  the  table  to  escape 
depletion.  But  she  remembered  that  an  intellectual 
exigency  had  been  presented  to  her,  and  answered 
with  the  requisite  feeling,  "  You  must  both  be  good 
girls  at  school.  I  don't  know  how  long  you  '11  be 
able  to  go." 

This  was  a  bogie  held  up  to  affright  them  from  of 
old.  To  Thyrza,  who  cherished  dreams  of  advanced 
courses  in  some  remote  academic  spot,  it  was  a  fore- 

12 


THE   SACRIFICE 


taste  of  agony ;  to  Laura  it  meant  nothing  in  particu 
lar.  Of  course,  Laura  thought,  no  one  knew  how 
long  they  would  be  able  to  go.  People  stopped  going 
to  school  at  all  sorts  of  ages.  Andy  McAdam  said 
he  meant  to  stop  next  year,  and  get  a  job  on  the 
railroad.  But  at  this  moment  even  Thyrza  had  no 
outcry  for  that  familiar  spectre.  Her  mind  was  on 
the  concert.  It  was  not  only  that  she  knew  her  mother 
ought  to  go ;  she  felt  committed  now  to  sending  her. 
The  lie  to  Rosie  May  had  done  it.  Thyrza  had  these 
dreadful  moments  of  longing  to  give  people  what  they 
never  desired  for  themselves.  She  would  sit  in  church 
coveting  for  her  mother  an  ceileted  collar,  with  such 
intensity  that  it  was  amazing  that  the  wearer  had  not 
writhed  in  her  seat.  It  had  seemed  for  days  now  that 
this  brilliant  and  beautiful  occasion  of  the  concert 
must  not  slip  by  unless  her  mother  had  a  part  in  it. 

"  Mother,"  she  said,  "  don't  you  s'pose  you  could 
go  to  the  concert?" 

"Mercy  sakes,  Thyrza,"  returned  her  mother, 
"  what 's  set  you  out  on  that  concert  ?  I  should  think 
you  was  Hattie  Ann,  for  all  the  world.  They  say  she 
ain't  left  off  runnin'  up  an'  down  her  scales  half  a 
day  sence  't  was  thought  of." 

Thyrza  persisted. 

"  Don't  you  s'pose  you  could  walk  so  far  ?  " 

"  You  run  out  in  the  shed,  one  o'  you,  an'  pick  me 
up  an  apronful  o'  chips,"  said  Mrs.  Tennant.  "  I  '11 
blaze  a  fire  an'  we  '11  have  supper  early  an'  get  it  out 
o'  the  way." 

13 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

Thyrza  sped  first,  to  get  there  before  Laura.  She 
had  times  of  leading  what  she  called  a  consecrated 
life,  and  the  consecration  consisted  in  hurrying  to  do 
the  tasks  that  others  might  effect.  Just  now  she 
thought  of  her  consecration  with  a  pang.  It  had  been 
absent  from  her  the  entire  day. 

ii 

That  night  Laura  and  Thyrza  sat  on  the  front  door 
step,  eating  the  crackers  and  milk  they  always  had  at 
bedtime.  Thyrza  was  happy.  She  had  fitted  together 
a  scheme  so  wonderful  that  it  made  all  the  rough 
places  of  the  day  quite  plain.  Her  mother  had  gone 
over  to  gossip  with  grandma  McAdam,  and  Thyrza 
knew  this  was  the  one  chance  to  prepare  Laura  for 
what  was  on  the  way.  Aunt  Ellie  came  flitting  round 
the  side  of  the  house,  and  seated  herself  on  a  step 
below  them.  She  was  uneasy  in  the  dark  without  com 
panionship,  though  now  she  had  it  she  took  no  notice 
of  the  children,  but  sat  crooning  her  little  song  to 
herself.  Thyrza's  splendid  secret  gave  her  a  sense  of 
daring  and  power.  She  ventured  into  a  forbidden 
road. 

"Aunt  Ellie,"  she  said,  "I  want  you  to  do  some 
thing." 

Aunt  Ellie  stopped  singing,  and  put  her  head 
sharply  round,  though  she  did  not  speak.  Laura  was 
listening,  too.  She  was  surprised,  and  almost,  in  her 
calm  fashion,  awed.  It  was  an  accepted  rule  of  the 
house  that  aunt  Ellie,  who  was  afflicted,  should  be 

14 


THE   SACRIFICE 


allowed,  in  all  practical  ways,  to  take  a  path  of  her 
own. 

"  I  want  you/'  said  Thyrza,  in  a  voice  that  trembled 
at  itself,  "not  to  have  any  curls." 

Aunt  Ellie's  hand  went  up  to  the  row  of  ringlets 
round  her  head.  Thyrza  knew,  with  an  intuition  like 
a  pang,  just  what  look  of  startled  inquiry  was  on  her 
face.  Yet  she  felt  she  had  done  right.  In  that  new 
mood,  warmed  by  her  sense  of  power,  she  was  sure 
the  strength  had  been  given  her  to  a  take  a  stand. 

"  Why  !  "  said  Laura.  She  seemed  to  be  breathing 
all  sorts  of  emotions  out  into  the  darkness.  "  Why, 
Thyrza  Tennant!" 

"That's  it,  aunt  Ellie,"  pursued  Thyrza.  "Not 
any  curls.  Mother  hasn't  any  curls.  See  how  nice  she 
looks." 

"Not  any  curls!  "  repeated  aunt  Ellie.  She  had  a 
way  of  echoing  phrases  in  a  wondering  tone.  "  Not 
any  curls." 

"  No,"  said  Thyrza,  with  finality,  "  not  any  curls." 
Her  mind  was  crowded  by  her  other  scheme.  She 
could  hardly  wait  to  tell  Laura  what  it  was.  She  leaned 
toward  her  in  the  dark.  "Laura,"  she  said,  "I'm 
going  to  make  mother  go  to  the  concert." 

"  What  for  ?  "  asked  Laura,  with  a  hideous  direct 
ness.  Laura  understood  that  mother  did  not  care  to 
go,  but  she  might  have  used  all  the  arguments  her 
certainty  could  have  brought  to  bear  before  Thyrza 
would,  in  this  hottest  of  moods,  have  heard  her.  And 
when  the  arguments  were  concluded,  some  ecstatic 

15 


THE    STORY   OF   THYRZA 

vision  of  the  concert  would  have  flamed  before  Thyrza 
and  she  would  have  known  anew  that  their  mother 
ought  to  go. 

"  I  've  got  it  all  planned/'  said  Thyrza  rapidly.  "It 's 
too  far  for  her  to  walk." 

"  Why,  mother  walks  a  lot !  " 

"  She  's  too  used  up  after  her  tailoring  — " 

"  Why,  it 's  nothin'  to  clip  it  over  to  the  Corners  !  " 

"  I  'm  going  to  get  Me  Adam's  dingle-cart  and  she 
can  climb  into  it,  and  you  and  I  can  haul  her." 

Laura  used  a  phrase  that  had  often  been  accorded 
Thyrza  in  her  soaring  moods. 

"  Why,  Thyrza,  I  should  think  you  was  crazy !  I 
guess  you  never  'd  hear  the  last  of  it." 

"I  should  n't  tell  anybody." 

"  Well,  would  n't  they  see  us  ?  Everybody 's  goin'  to 
the  Corners  that  night,  an'  I  guess  they'd  pass  us, 
wouldn't  they?  folks  in  their  horse  and  wagon,  an' 
you  an'  me  haulm'  a  dingle-cart ! " 

"  I  should  start  as  soon  as  't  was  dusk,  and  when 
we  got  to  the  pinewood  grove,  I  'd  haul  the  dingle- 
cart  in  there,  and  let  it  stand  round  till  we  wanted  to 
go  home." 

Laura  had  a  gleam  of  grim  humor. 

"I  guess  'twould  n't  run  away,"  she  offered. 

"  And  I  shan't  tell  mother  beforehand,"  said 
Thyrza.  She  saw  a  form  through  the  dusk  and  heard 
the  fall  of  hurried  feet.  This  was  their  mother  coming 
nome.  "  If  we  told  her,  she'd  say  she  wouldn't  let  us. 
So  I  'm  just  going  to  have  the  dingle-cart  ready  at  the 

16 


THE    SACRIFICE 


gate,  and  you  've  got  to  carry  her  bonnet  to  her  and 
say,  '  Now,  mother,  come  along.  Thyrza  's  ready  and 
there's  the  cart/  She'll  do  it  for  you." 

"Maybe  the  tickets '11  be  gone,"  ventured  Laura 
feebly. 

"  No,  they  won't.  I  'm  going  to  walk  over  to-mor 
row  after  school  and  get  two." 

"  We  can't  go  in  on  two." 

"  Yes,  we  can."  Her  sense  of  consecration  came 
upon  her,  and  she  added  with  an  exalted  fervor,  "You 
and  mother  '11  go  in.  I  shall  wait  for  you  outside.  I 
don't  care  much  about  singing." 

"  Why,  Thyrza  Tennant !  yes,  you  do.  You  'most 
cry  sometimes  when  they  sing  '  When  I'm  about  to 
die.'  An'  anyways,"  she  planted  her  foot  triumphantly 
on  fact,  "where  you  goin'  to  get  the  money?" 

Thyrza  turned  upon  her  in  the  dusk.  Her  voice 
trembled  from  a  solemn  recognition  of  what  she  had 
to  say. 

"  I  'm  going  to  take  it  out  of  my  missionary  box." 

"Why,  Thyrza  Tennant!  I  never  heard  such  a 
thing  in  my  life.  But  you  've  only  got  sixty  cents." 

Thyrza  answered  sweetly  in  the  tone  of  the  Chris 
tian  martyr,  assured  of  after-recompense,  — 

"I'm  going  to  take  forty  out  of  yours." 

"Thyrza  Tennant,  that's  stealin' ! " 

"No,  it  isn't,"  said  Thyrza  firmly.  "  I  've  told  you 
beforehand,  so  now  it  isn't.  Hush  !  there  's  mother." 

The  next  events  followed  as  Thyrza  had  decreed. 
After  school  she  slipped  away  while  Andy  McAdam 

17 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

was  putting  gravel  in  Laura's  waterproof-hood,  and 
Kosie  May  stood  by,  in  a  gentle  interest,  enjoying 
Laura's  emotions,  and  started  on  a  race  for  the  Cor 
ners.  She  ran  until  the  blood  beat  in  her  ears  and  her 
throat  was  dry,  all  in  a  passion,  partly  of  joy  over  the 
greatness  of  her  enterprise,  and  partly  of  fear.  Thyrza 
was  afraid  of  nearly  everything  not  within  her  familiar 
bounds  of  life.  Her  mind  held  dim  corners  of  appre 
hension.  One  favorite  fear  that  beset  her  on  lonely 
roads,  and  that  she  accepted  as  part  of  her  unchanging 
lot,  was  that  some  day,  out  of  the  stillness  and  the 
dusk,  an  elephant  would  chase  her.  The  world  beyond 
the  neighborhood  was  all  an  ecstasy  of  newness  and 
its  terrors.  Now  she  was  afraid  of  the  pinewood  grove 
as  she  ran  through,  and  afraid  of  good  old  Mr.  Mer 
rill  driving  in  his  long-reach  and  never  even  guessing 
there  might  be  a  little  girl  in  the  track  to  be  bowed 
to.  Thyrza  sat  behind  him  in  church,  and  knew  every 
line  in  the  map  of  his  wrinkled  red  neck;  but  now, 
meeting  him  out  of  her  accustomed  paths,  she  cast  one 
awed  glance  at  him  and  fled  by  on  hurried  feet. 

When  she  got  home  that  night,  the  two  tickets 
were  tucked  into  her  apron  pocket,  and  her  handker 
chief  was  on  top  of  them,  and  her  little  fist  over  that. 
Laura  gave  her  one  hurried  glance.  Laura  could 
scarcely  believe  in  such  dash  and  abandon.  As  for 
Thyrza,  she  felt  the  fearful  joy  of  youth  tasting  for 
the  first  time  an  unchartered  liberty.  She  nodded  tri 
umphantly  at  Laura.  Supper  was  over,  and  hers  had 
been  saved  for  her  on  the  end  of  the  kitchen  table. 

18 


THE   SACRIFICE 


Still  keeping  her  hand  in  her  apron  pocket,  she  ran 
to  the  table  and  took  a  large  bite  of  johnny-cake 
made  with  molasses,  as  she  liked  it.  Her  mother  was 
washing  dishes  at  the  sink;  but  now  she  turned  in  a 
deferred  anxiety. 

"  For  mercy  sake,  Thyrza,"  she  inquired,  "  where 
you  been?" 

Thyrza  choked  upon  her  johnny-cake.  Lying  was 
afar  from  her.  She  could  not  answer. 

"You  got  your  feet  wet?"  pursued  Mrs.  Tennant 
anxiously.  "  You  ain't  been  into  the  swamp  anywheres 
after  flag,  have  you  ?  " 

Thyrza's  mind  cleared  now  that  it  was  apparent 
she  had  to  account  only  for  damage  done  herself. 

"No,  mother,  I  ain't,  truly  I  ain't,"  she  averred, 
lapsing,  in  the  extremity  of  her  candor,  into  an  ab 
horred  verb.  "  I  'm  just  as  dry  —  see  if  I  ain't." 

But  Mrs.  Tennant  had  some  buttonholes  to  finish 
that  night,  and  the  pressing  to  do,  and  so  long  as  her 
two  hostages  were  before  her  unimpaired,  she  had  no 
mind  to  spend  on  past  occurrences. 

Thyrza  ate  a  greedy  supper,  exhilarated  as  she  was 
by  her  run  in  the  moist,  cool  air,  and  the  reaction 
from  her  passing  fear.  It  was  beautiful  to  have  had 
the  fears,  since  nothing  had  happened  after  all.  When 
she  went  into  the  pantry  to  carry  away  the  bread, 
Laura,  waiting  for  the  chance,  fled  after  her. 

"  Let  me  see  'em,"  she  besought,  in  an  awed 
wrhisper. 

Thyrza  brought  out  the  two  wonderful  green  slips 

19 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

from  her  apron  pocket  and,  incredulous  herself  of 
their  existence,  flashed  them,  in  one  brief  gesture,  be 
fore  her  sister's  eyes.  Laura  caught  her  breath. 

"  Thyrza  Tennant,"  she  said,  "  if  you  ain't  the 
greatest !  " 

This  was  two  days  before  the  concert,  and  the 
sisters  went  about  in  that  fevered  interval  almost 
choked  with  the  sense  of  their  undertaking.  The  day 
itself  came  with  a  lowering  sky,  and  the  night  was 
dark.  When  they  rose  from  the-  supper- table,  Thyrza 
could  scarcely  speak.  Her  eyes  glittered  and  her 
cheeks  were  a  vivid  red.  Once  her  mother  paused  in 
her  goings  to  and  fro  between  pantry  and  table  to 
lay  a  hand  on  her  forehead  and  ask,  — 

"  You  ain't  feverish,  be  you  ?  " 

Thyrza  escaped  the  kindly  touch,  and  clutched  at 
the  tickets,  now  in  the  bottom  of  her  dress  pocket.  She 
had  been  very  careful,  but  they  were  crumpled  from 
much  handling. 

"  Are  we  goin'  to  wear  our  best  ? "  Laura  asked 
her,  in  a  whisper,  when  Mrs.  Tennant  had  disappeared 
again,  to  carry  away  the  bread. 

"We  can't,"  Thyrza  choked.  "She'd  notice.  It 
don't  make  any  difference,  that  don't." 

It  seemed  to  her  that  the  grandeur  of  their  mission 
had  lifted  them  even  above  considerations  of  cashmere 
frocks  trimmed  with  velvet  ribbon.  Thyrza  felt  that, 
in  some  way,  in  spite  of  the  happiness  she  foresaw  in 
giving  her  mother  pleasure,  she  was  now  on  the  road 
to  sacrifice. 

20 


THE   SACRIFICE 


"I  guess  I'll  go  over  to  Mis'  Me  Adam's  a  spell 
an'  set  with  gran'ma,"  came  their  mother's  voice. 
"Folks '11  be  goin'  to  the  concert,  an'  she's  kinder 
nervous  when  the  neighborhood 's  away." 

Thyrza  made  a  mad  rush  from  the  kitchen  and  fell 
upon  her  mother's  aproned  skirt. 

"  Don't  you  do  it,"  she  besought.  "  Don't  you  do 
it.  You  '11  spoil  it  all." 

Mrs.  Tennant  looked  down  at  her  in  wonder. 

"You're  all  beat  out,"  said  she.  "No,  mother 
won't  go  if  you  don't  feel  well.  You  run  right  up, 
Thyrza,  an'  slip  yourself  into  bed." 

Thyrza,  with  a  little  sigh,  seemed  setting  out  to 
obey.  But  in  the  entry  she  put  on  her  school  hat  and 
slipped  the  elastic  under  her  chin.  Laura  had  followed 
her. 

"  In  just  a  quarter  of  an  hour,"  said  Thyrza,  in  her 
choking  voice,  "you  tell  her.  You  get  her  bonnet 
for  her,  and  the  dingle-cart  '11  be  at  the  gate." 

"  You  tell  her  yourself,"  said  Laura,  overcome 
with  the  responsibilities  of  her  position.  "  Tell  her 


now." 


"  No,"  said  Thyrza  sadly,  her  wretched  past  rising 
like  a  nemesis  before  her.  "  She  never  'd  believe  me. 
She  'd  say  't  was  some  of  my  folderol."  She  tugged 
the  front  door  softly  open  and  stepped  out.  "  Shut 
it  to  easy,"  she  whispered.  "  She  '11  think  I  've  gone 
to  bed."4 

It  was  a  very  plain  and  pleasant  way  by  daylight 
to  the  McAdams'  shed,  the  walls  bulging  out  from 

21 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

age  and  the  imminence  of  falling ;  but  in  this  misty 
dusk  all  the  long- familiar  objects  by  the  way  took  on 
uncouth  shapes  like  the  ghosts  of  normal  life.  When 
she  crossed  the  orchard,  even  the  gnarly  apple  trees 
seemed  to  stretch  out  unfriendly  arms  to  her,  and  she 
stumbled  in  her  fright  over  the  wall  where  Andy  had 
put  the  flat  stone  that  was  so  commodious  by  day. 
The  entrance  to  the  shed  was  a  way  of  terror.  The 
sleigh  where  she  had  played  by  the  hour  not  a  week 
before  seemed  the  dark  cage  of  unruly  spirits,  and 
the  old  chaise  Parson  McAdam  had  driven  long  ago, 
and  that  would  take  the  road  no  more,  was  a  monster 
of  evil  shape.  There  was  the  little  cart  on  the  outskirts 
of  these  horrors.  She  knew  where  to  put  her  hands  on 
it ;  but  when  she  had  drawn  it  out,  she  felt  at  once 
that  this  was  the  utmost  she  could  do.  The  blood  was 
in  her  face  and  a  sob  rose  in  her  throat.  When  some 
one  spoke  at  her  side,  she  screamed  piercingly. 

"  Aw,"  said  Andy,  "  what  ye  doin'  of  ?    Give  me 
hold  o'  that,  won't  ye  ?  " 

And  immediately  she  was  walking  away  with  Andy, 
each  of  them  tugging  at  a  shaft. 

"  'T  ain't  goin'  to  rain,"  said  Andy  presently,  on  a 
smoother  level.  "  You  need  n't  pick  it  up." 

"Pick  what  up?" 

"  That  brush  you  've  got  piled  up  in  the  pines. 
Wa'n't  that  what  you  took  the  cart  for  ?  " 

Thyrza  stopped  and  threw  her  weight  on  the  shafts. 

"  Aw,  come,"   said  Andy,  "  don't  go  to  draggin' 
back  that  way.  I  can't  haul  you  'n'  the  cart,  too." 

22 


THE   SACRIFICE 


"  Andy,"  said  Thyrza,  "  promise  me  you  '11  leave 
me   alone    the    minute   you    get    the    cart    to    our 


gate." 


"  I  was  goin'  along  to  the  pines  an'  help  pick  up," 
said  Andy,  aggrieved.  "  'F  you  don't  want  me  to,  I 
need  n't." 

"  Andy,  I  'm  going  to  have  me  a  bunch  o'  snap- 
crackers  Fourth  o'  July.  If  you  '11  leave  me  at  the 
gate  and  run  home  and  never  look  back  I  '11  give  'em 
to  you.  I'll  give  you  every  one." 

"  'F  I  want  snap-crackers,  I  guess  I  can  git  'em 
'thout  comin'  to  a  girl,"  said  Andy  manfully.  "  You 
can  haul  your  brush  yourself,  'f  you  want  to.  'S  no- 
thin'  to  me."  He  vanished  into  the  darkness  and  left 
her  trembling  in  an  unfriendly  world. 

She  put  all  her  strength  into  the  work  and  tugged 
first  on  one  shaft  and  then  on  the  other,  and  so,  in  its 
zigzag  way,  the  car  of  sacrifice  rolled  on.  Another 
little  figure  sped  forward  to  her  out  of  the  dark. 

"  0  Thyrza,"  cried  Laura,  in  the  tone  of  high  ex 
citement,  "  she  says  it 's  all  foolishness.  She  won't 
believe  you  're  here,  nor  about  the  cart  nor  the  concert 
nor  anything." 

"  Did  you  get  her  bonnet  for  her  ?  "  asked  Thyrza, 
in  an  agony. 

"I  laid  it  out  on  the  entry  table  an'  I  told  her 
'twas  there.  But  all  she'd  do  was  to  hang  up  the 
dish-cloth  and  say,  i  I  believe  I  '11  run  over  to  gran'ma 
McAdam's  a  minute,  after  all.' ' 

There  came  a  sound  of  wheels  and  a  beating  of 

23 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

hoofs.  A  buggy  rolled  by,  some  one  craning  a  neck 
to  discern  the  children  in  the  darkness. 

"  She 's  got  to  come  !  "  cried  Thyrza.  "  She 's  got 
to  come  now.  We  '11  be  late  as  it  is.  Laura  !  there  she 
is  coming." 

The  slight  figure  in  the  familiar  shawl  and  bonnet 
was  speeding  down  the  path.  All  in  a  hurried  moment 
Thyrza's  trouble  turned  to  joy. 

"  0  mother,  get  in !  "  she  cried.  "Oh,  ain't  it  splen 
did  !  I  'm  so  glad." 

While  she  spoke  the  ascent  was  made,  and  she,  who 
had  tested  the  weight  of  the  chariot,  knew  there  was 
no  time  to  lose. 

"  Ketch  hold,  Laura,"  she  cried.  "  You  take  one 
shaft.  I  '11  take  t'  other." 

Laura  plunged  to  her  post,  and  down  the  little  incline 
beyond  the  house  they  went  whirling.  Then  came  a 
rise  of  ground,  the  wheels  were  stayed  and  they  threw 
themselves  forward  and  tugged  and  strained.  What 
sound  was  it  that  rose  behind  them?  A  low  and 
happy  crooning  of  a  desolate  air:  "Mary  across  the 
wild  moor."  Laura  felt  only  a  stolid  and  rather  un 
pleasant  surprise.  To  Thyrza  the  world  turned  cruel. 
She  heard  herself  crying  aloud,  "  'T  is  n't  mother ! 
'T  is  n't  mother!  It's  aunt  Ellie."  There  they  stood, 
the  ruins  of  their  little  dream  about  them,  and  aunt 
Ellie  sat  in  the  cart  and  sang.  Laura  recovered 
healthily,  almost  at  once. 

"We  ain't  gone  far,"  she  said.  "Let's  go  back 
an'  get  mother  now.  'T  ain't  too  late." 

24 


THE  SACRIFICE 


"  It  is  too  late/'  cried  Thyrza.  Her  voice  sounded 
like  the  wailing  of  the  lost.  "It's  too  late !  " 

"  No,  't  ain't  either,"  persisted  Laura. 

Thyrza  clutched  her  in  the  dark. 

"  Laura,"  she  said,  "  God  meant  it." 

"You  mustn't  swear,"  said  Laura.  The  darkness 
was  beginning  to  tell  on  her. 

Thyrza  had  soared  from  the  abyss  to  another  height 
of  sacrifice. 

"God  didn't  mean  mother  should  have  it,"  she 
announced.  "He  meant  aunt  Ellie  should.  But  she's 
got  to  walk.  We  couldn't  any  more  pull  this  to  the 
Corners  —  " 

"No,  course  we  couldn't,"  said  Laura.  Her  hard 
little  hands  felt  strained  and  torn.  She  rubbed  them 
ruefully. 

"  You  get  out,  aunt  Ellie,"  Thyrza  called,  in  the 
blithe  tone  of  one  who  has  learned  a  higher  will. 
"We  aren't  going  to  ride,  aunt  Ellie.  We're  going 
to  walk." 

Aunt  Ellie  stepped  lightly  down,  and  slipped  her 
hand  into  Thyrza' s,  and  the  three  went  on.  Thyrza 
was  absorbed  in  her  certainty  that  this  was  sacrifice; 
but  presently  she  heard  a  little  sulky  whisper  at  her 
side. 

"Thyrza!  Thyrza!  You  goin' to  let  her  go  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Thyrza. 

Aunt  Ellie,  flying  along  with  her  odd  little  trot, 
heard  nothing.  She  was  crooning  "  Mary  across  the 
wild  moor." 

25 


THE   STORY   OF   THYEZA 

"Thyrza,"  came  the  whisper  again.  It  seemed  now 
to  be  not  Laura  but  the  devil.  "  She  '11  look  awful 
funny." 

Thyrza  saw  at  once  that  Laura's  life  was  not  to  be 
enriched  by  the  adventure.  This  was  her  quest  and 
hers  alone. 

"You  needn't  go  in,"  she  said  gloriously.  "I'm 
going  myself." 

The  little  figure  melted  away.  Thyrza  heard  its 
pattering  steps  lighter  and  lighter  on  the  homeward 
track.  Laura  had  deserted  her,  and  she  and  aunt 
Ellie  were  going  on  and  on,  hand  in  hand,  along  a 
path  that  would  never  end.  Wagons  passed  them. 
Once  somebody  called  out,  "Ride?"  but  she  could 
not  answer.  She  only  held  aunt  Ellie's  little  hand  the 
tighter.  Then  it  began  to  rain. 

"Oh  !  "  cried  Thyrza  sharply,  "you've  got  on  mo 
ther's  bonnet.  Take  it  off,  aunt  Ellie.  Take  it  off." 

On  the  instant,  aunt  Ellie  obeyed. 

"  Give  it  to  me,"  said  Thyrza.  "  I  '11  put  my  skirt 
over  it."  So  they  continued,  and  the  rain  fell  on 
them.  Once  Thyrza  realized  that  a  bonnet  string  had 
got  under  her  feet,  and  that  she  was  treading  on 
it,  but  she  kept  saying  to  herself,  agonized  and  yet 
exalted,  "It's  the  best  I  can  do.  It's  the  best  I 
can  do." 

And  then  they  came  into  the  square  in  front  of  the 
hall,  and  there  were  lanterns  and  groups  of  shawled 
and  dripping  people,  and  Thyrza  knew  this  was  the 
mount  of  sacrifice.  Still  holding  aunt  Ellie's  hand, 

26 


THE   SACRIFICE 


she  passed  into  the  vestibule  of  the  hall,  and  there 
unloosed  the  clinging  grasp,  to  find  the  tickets  in  her 
pocket.  But  in  that  instant  she  saw  other  people 
staring  —  familiar  faces  now,  though  in  this  crisis  they 
seemed  to  be  the  masks  of  enemies  —  and  turned 
herself  to  look.  There  stood  aunt  Ellie,  a  picture  of 
vague  delight.  The  rain  had  washed  her  face  into  a 
moist  rosiness,  and  her  hair  no  longer  kept  its  ring  of 
curls.  It  was  cut  in  uneven  jags  close  to  her  poll. 
The  rain  had  sleeked  it  into  little  threads,  and  tiny 
lines  of  it  fringed  her  forehead.  Thyrza  forgot  that 
the  neighbors  were  looking  on,  and  that  the  gentry 
of  the  Corners  was  also  there  to  see. 

"  Aunt  Ellie,"  she  breathed,  "  you  Ve  cut  off  your 
hair." 

Aunt  Ellie,  with  a  satisfied  and  knowing  smile,  put 
up  a  hand  to  her  sleek  crown. 

"  Not  wear  curls  ! "  she  murmured,  as  one  demand 
ing  praise.  "Not  wear  curls  !  " 

Thyrza  paused  for  one  blind  instant.  Then  she  put 
out  her  hand  and  took  that  other  waiting  one,  thrust 
her  tickets  vaguely  at  the  door-keeper  and  went  into 
the  lighted  hall.  She  knew  that  some  one  led  them 
to  seats  near  the  front,  that  there  was  a  semicircular 
crowd  of  people  on  the  platform,  with  Hattie  Ann 
among  them,  and  that  the  bass-viol  and  fiddles  were 
tuning  with  a  call  that  sickened  and  excited  her. 
There  was  a  great  deal  of  talking  and  rustling  here 
and  there,  and  by  and  by  it  was  quiet  and  a  chorus 
of  voices  began,  — 

27 


THE   STORY  OF  THYRZA 

"  0  my  beloved  !  " 

Thyrza  had  never  felt  anything  like  the  joy  and 
pain  of  it,  the  joy  of  riding  on  the  waves  of  sound, 
and  the  sharp  pang  of  human  misery.  And  suddenly, 
as  she  was  thinking  how  strange  it  was  and  how  queer 
everybody  looked  and  how  large  Hattie  Ann's  head 
was,  and  how  it  kept  growing  larger  and  larger,  the 
hall  began  to  darken.  Then  Barton  Gorse,  the  young 
man  who  had  come  to  spend  the  summer  in  his 
grandfather's  house,  left  his  seat  across  the  way,  and 
picked  her  up  in  his  arms.  Thyrza  dropped  her  head 
on  his  shoulder  with  a  sense  that,  although  she  could 
neither  breathe  nor  see,  things  were  going  to  be  dif 
ferent  now  he  had  come ;  and  so  he  carried  her  away. 


II 

THE  RIVAL  HOUSES 

J_T  was  a  habit  among  the  children  of  Leafy  Road 
to  make  play-houses  in  the  highway  along  by  the 
fence.  They  outlined  their  habitations  with  stones  or 
sticks,  and  moved  in  beautiful  furniture  of  the  carved 
bark  of  trees.  Sometimes  there  were  chairs  resembling 
convenient  flat  stones  tumbled  off  the  walls  at  great 
risk  to  little  toes,  or  tugged  thither  by  hot  and  pant 
ing  house-holders.  Under  the  two  great  maples  that 
were  all  gold  every  autumn,  and  never  by  any  chance 
varied  by  a  red  leaf,  were  three  play-houses.  The  first, 
after  leaving  the  schoolhouse  on  the  road  to  the  Cor- 

o 

ners,  belonged  to  Thyrza,  the  second  to  Rosie  May, 
and  the  third  to  Laura.  Rosie  May  had  chosen  the 
second  because  it  backed  upon  an  upright  stone  that 
was  nice  to  lean  against ;  and  though  Thyrza  had  dis 
covered  the  stone  the  moment  it  had  been  put  there 
by  Judge  Gorse,  who  was  very  particular  about  the 
look  of  his  fields  and  had  found  the  boys  were  always 
toppling  off  the  round  stones  from  the  wall  at  this  one 
point,  she  had  borne  without  question  to  see  it  taken 
away  from  her.  Thyrza  had  still  no  way  of  telling  how 
Rosie  May  made  her  feel.  None  of  her  thoughts  were 
ever  known  to  her  little  blond  enemy,  because  Rosie 
May  was  the  last  living  creature  before  whom  she 
could  be  her  simple  self.  Yet  she  always  had  a  feeling 

29 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

as  if  she  were  standing  bare  and  shivering  for  Rosie 
May  to  stick  pins  in.  Her  feet  seemed  to  be  unshod 
for  Rosie  May  to  stamp  on,  her  hair  seemed  to  be  fly 
ing  over  to  Rosie  May  to  be  pulled ;  and  yet  the  little 
blond  girl  never  did  more  than  look  at  her  critically 
and  make  her  feel  how  thin  she  was,  how  dark  and 
ugly,  and  that  her  nose  had  freckles.  Thyrza  had  a 
feeling  that  sometime  there  would  come  a  day  when 
Rosie  May  would  say  all  she  thought,  and  it  would 
be  terrible.  She  was  afraid  of  rousing  that  hitherto 
mute  something  which  should  cause  her  adversary  to 
do  her  worst.  So  her  schooldays  were  bitter  to  her  and 
playtime  an  anguish  of  apprehension. 

She  could  remember  one  day  in  winter  when  several 
of  the  mothers  went  to  pass  the  afternoon  with  Mrs. 
Me  Adam,  taking  their  little  girls  with  them.  The 
mothers  settled  in  the  best  room  to  their  knitting  and 
seaming,  and  the  children  were  sent  out  into  the 
kitchen,  with  the  kindly  injunction  to  play.  Thyrza 
went  with  a  sick  heart,  a  remembered  misery  she 
tasted  all  her  life,  to  think  how  sure  Rosie  May  was 
to  make  her  miserable  or  funny  before  the  afternoon's 
ordeal  was  over.  She  remembered  looking  back  as  she 
left  the  room,  a  maiden  led  to  sacrifice,  and  thinking 
with  passionate  envy  of  the  happy  fate  allotted  to  all 
old  ladies  who  may  sit  and  sew  and  even  be  silent  by 
the  hour  without  incurring  the  ridicule  of  their  kind. 
What  did  happen  that  afternoon  she  never  remem 
bered.  Rosie  May  was  not  more  hateful  than  usual, 
though  the  path  that  led  beside  hers  had  been  more  than 

30 


THE   RIVAL   HOUSES 


ordinarily  thorny.  At  that  time  Thyrza  had  recognized 
what  Rosie  May  was  in  her  life.  All  these  alarms  and 
miseries  were  hidden  from  Laura,  who  had  a  general 
idea  that  Kosie  May  was  inclined  to  be  hateful,  and 
that  Thyrza  liked  to  keep  away  from  her;  but  if  she 
had  realized  the  warfare  in  her  sister's  breast,  she 
would  no  doubt,  with  the  utmost  simplicity,  have  put 
out  her  stout  little  fist  and  smitten  Rosie  May  full 
sore. 

One  warm  sweet  day  in  vacation,  Thyrza  suddenly 
felt  like  playing  hard.  She  wanted  to  go  very  far  and 
find  new  things,  or  to  accept  the  old  ones  with  a  dif 
ference.  The  schoolhouse  seemed  a  long  distance  away, 
as  it  always  did  in  summer,  and  the  thought  of  the 
deserted  play-houses,  their  walls  knocked  about  by 
wandering  horses  and  marauding  boys,  appealed  to  her. 

Laura,  with  the  sense  of  the  sleepy  day  working  a 
different  alchemy  in  her,  was  sitting  on  the  pigpen 
fence  with  Andy.  They  had  each  a  shingle,  and  each 
was  scratching  the  back  of  a  pig,  to  the  great  increase 
of  porcine  content.  When  Thyrza  came  round  the 
corner,  Andy  was  chanting  his  own  prowess  and  the 
derelictions  of  gran'ther's  gun,  preserved  by  grandma, 
a  terrifying  heritage. 

"  Kick  !  "  he  was  interjecting  with  scorn.  "  Why, 
last  time  Sammy  Fiske  an'  me  went  out  pa'tridge- 
shootin'  — "  Here  he  caught  sight  of  Thyrza  and 
paused,  not  from  embarrassment,  but  for  lack  of 
matter  and  the  realization  that  she  gave  convenient 
pretext  for  a  halt.  Thyrza  threw  herself  at  the  fence, 

31 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

and  selecting  a  shingle  from  the  supply  kept  ever  at 
hand,  began  using  it  absently,  yet  with  vigor,  on  an 
unfriended  pig. 

66  Say,"  she  began,  including  Andy  within  the  sweep 
of  her  eye,  "  le  's  go  someYs." 

Thyrza  had  a  correct  vocabulary,  devoted  to  the 
moments  when  she  wished  to  lead  an  intellectual  life 
or  abase  herself  in  moral  sacrifice ;  but  when  she 
sought  to  beguile  Laura  and  Andy  into  expeditions 
she  felicitously  used  their  language.  Andy  looked 
up  at  her  briefly.  He  never  seemed  to  see  Thyrza, 
perhaps  because  she  was  the  youngest  and  had  given 
him  and  Laura  many  uncertain  moments,  in  the  course 
of  their  lives,  by  offer  of  her  company. 

"  Nowher's  to  go,"  he  replied  as  briefly. 

Thyrza  had  caught  the  trail  of  the  talk  on  her 
arrival. 

"  You  could  take  your  gran'ther's  gun,"  she  sug 
gested,  "  and  we  could  go  over  'n  the  pines  and  shoot 
at  a  mark." 

"  Mark  be  jiggered  !  "  said  Andy,  who  could  hardly 
own  to  poor  feminine  things  that  grandma  kept  the 
gun  "  up  attic,"  after  having  caused  a  neighbor  to 
make  it  impotent  by  divorcing  stock  and  barrel.  "  I 
guess  if  you  'd  once  drawed  bead  on  a  moose  or  an  elk 
you  would  n't  talk  about  shootin'  at  no  marks." 

"  There  ain't  any  moose  round  here,"  said  Laura 
quietly. 

"  Ain't  there  ? "  inquired  Andy,  with  gloom. 
"  Well,  I  'd  like  to  know  why  there  ain't  ?  " 

32 


THE   RIVAL   HOUSES 


Nobody  could  tell  him,  and  Thyrza,  who  was  ready 
to  believe  where  she  admired  as  she  did  Andy,  imme 
diately  felt  that  there  were  no  moose  because  of  his 
personal  valor.  But  she  put  the  question  by. 

"  Well,"  she  ventured,  "  we  could  go  someVs  any 
ways.  We  could  go  down  to  the  play-houses." 

"Huh!"  said  Andy.  "I  can  see  through  that. 
Kosie  May  's  gone  by  to  the  Corners,  an'  you  know 
she  won't  be  there  to  make  you  stan'  round." 

Thyrza  was  too  entirely  delighted  to  repel  the 
charge. 

"  Has  she  gone,  Andy?  "  she  cried.  "Honest  and 
true  ?  0  Laura,  come  on  down  !  " 

Laura  obediently  left  the  fence  and  dropped  her 
shingle  on  the  pile.  She  was  placidly  ready  to  play 
wherever  she  should  be  called.  The  pigs,  after  one 
expectant  moment,  gave  a  grunt  and  sauntered  to  a 
cooler  slough.  The  spell  of  the  morning  was  broken 
for  them  all,  and  even  Andy  lounged  away  from  his 
perch,  condescending  to  wait  for  them  with  an  indif 
ference  which  was  lordly  and,  Thyrza  felt,  very  be 
coming  to  him.  She  made  haste  to  follow,  and  while 
Laura  walked  at  her  side  kept  urging  in  an  under 
tone,  "You  ask  him.  You  ask  him." 

Andy  was  whistling  with  a  piercing  bravery,  and 
he  seemed  not  to  hear.  All  their  confidences,  he  im 
plied,  were  of  the  things  girls  were  likely  to  say, 
which  are  of  no  importance  whatever.  But  Laura 
had  come  up  with  him  and  was  obediently  reciting, 
"  Come  on  down,  Andy." 

33 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

He  reflected  rapidly.  It  was  vacation,  and  he  knew 
where  every  boy  was  likely  to  be  at  this  time  of  day. 
Nobody  would  see  him  playing  with  girls,  and  if  he 
went  home  grandmother  was  sure  to  set  him  to  bring 
ing  in  wood. 

"All  right,"  said  he  graciously.  "I'll  go  for  half 
an  hour  or  so." 

They  set  off  down  the  road  together,  but  not  until 
Thyrza  had  scurried  into  the  house  and  returned  with 
something  knobby,  veiled  obscurely  by  a  paper  bag. 

"What's  that?"  asked  Laura,  though  without 
much  interest. 

"  Oh,  you  '11  see,"  said  Thyrza,  and  they  went  on, 
Laura  dismissing  the  mystery  from  her  mind  because 
it  seemed  natural  that  she  could  find  out  when  the 
time  came,  and  Andy,  against  reason,  hoping  it  meant 
cake. 

Two  hours  of  the  forenoon  went  very  fast.  Andy, 
in  spite  of  himself,  got  interested  in  play-houses. 
The  girls  had  been  such  fools  as  builders.  They  had 
put  the  stone  arm-chair  and  sofa  in  the  sun,  where 
all  their  leaf-dressed  dolls  would  wither.  They  had 
laid  their  foundations  catacornered  when  they  might 
as  well  have  had  them  straight.  Of  all  things  Andy 
liked  to  take  a  stick  for  measurement  and  pretend 
it  was  a  foot-rule,  and  he  loved  to  carry  a  twig  in 
his  mouth  in  the  certainty  that  it  was  really  a  nail 
and  that  he  should  presently  drive  it  somewhere, 
straight  and  swift.  It  was  his  own  particular  game. 
The  girls,  he  was  sure,  never  suspected  that  private 

34 


THE   RIVAL   HOUSES 


pastime.  They  thought  he  was  simply  sauntering 
about,  rebuking  their  foolishness;  whereas  he  was 
really  having  a  remarkably  good  time. 

When  the  houses  were  decently  in  order,  the  girls 
breathed  hard  as  they  knew  their  mother  would  do, 
and  said,  "  There ! "  Then  Andy  looked  at  the  forlorn 
little  plot  that  lay  between  their  reconstructed  habi 
tations. 

"Goin'  to  straighten  that  up?"  he  asked.  It  was 
the  tone  of  the  carpenter,  but  they  did  not  know  it. 
He  had  almost  said,  "jack  it  up,"  because  that  was 
what  had  been  done  to  the  old  house  his  gran'ther 
bought  once  and  prepared  for  summer  boarders,  only 
to  lose  thirty-seven  dollars  on  it. 

Thyrza  blanched  as  at  mention  of  a  ghost. 

"Oh,  no!"  said  she.  "That's  Rosie  May's." 

"Rosie  May  ain't  here,"  leered  Andy.  He  looked 
like  the  carpenter  wanting  a  job,  or  the  carpenter  on 
strike.  Thyrza  gazed  at  him  in  the  earnest  beseeching 
of  one  who  hears  sacrilege  and  hopes  she  may  never 
be  called  upon  to  listen  to  it  again. 

"Andy  Me  Adam,"  said  she,  "you  mustn't  any 
more  touch  anything  in  that  play-house,  you  must  n't 
even  set  your  foot  inside  of  it."  —  She  paused,  all 
her  apprehension  before  Rosie  May  and  her  sense  of 
play-house  honor  ranged  together  against  him. 

Andy  took  one  step  toward  the  forbidden  terri 
tory. 

"Who's  afraid  of  Rosie  May?"  he  inquired. 

But  at  that  moment  Laura,  who  had  been  looking 

35 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

on  and  judging  from  her  own  sense  of  play-house 
rights,  cut  in  with  an  instinctive  feminine  wile. 

"Come  over  here,  Andy.  Come  into  my  house.  I 
got  a  sopsavine." 

It  was  nearly  noon  and  Andy  was  hungry.  He 
knew  something  of  Laura,  her  calm,  slow  justice  and 
her  way  of  doing  exactly  what  she  said.  If  he  defied 
her  now,  she  was  capable  of  withholding  largess.  So 
he  went  slowly  into  her  compound,  with  the  air  of 
finding  it  a  tiresome  thing  to  do,  and  looked,  yet  as 
if  he  were  not  looking,  for  the  apple.  There  it  was, 
divided  into  quarters,  on  the  stone  dining-table.  Laura 
had  borrowed  his  knife,  after  he  had  whittled  out  his 
two-foot  rule,  and  quietly  prepared  her  banquet  for 
Mm.  There  was  no  thought  of  herself,  or  of  Thyrza. 

"You  set  down,"  said  she,  in  a  grave  imitation  of 
her  mother's  manner.  "There!  I  ain't  a  mite  hun 
gry.  I've  had  a  kind  of  a  headache  all  day." 

So  Andy  sat  down,  knowing  he  should  not  receive 
the  apple  unless  he  took  it  in  the  way  she  bade,  and 
Laura,  walking  back  and  forth  from  her  stone  cook- 
stove  to  the  table,  on  imaginary  errands,  tasted  of 
happiness.  Andy  was  thinking  of  the  apple,  but  she 
was  thinking  of  him.  Thyrza,  alone  in  her  play-house, 
looked  over  and  saw  them.  At  once  she  understood. 
She  knew  what  Laura  was  playing,  whether  Laura 
knew  it  or  not.  Andy  was  Laura's  husband,  and  they 
were  having  dinner  after  his  work.  At  first  Thyrza 
smiled,  because  it  was  pleasant  to  her  to  see  Laura 
so  cosy.  She  felt  quite  grown  up  herself,  and  as  a 

36 
If- 


THE   RIVAL   HOUSES 


mother  might  whose  children  are  content.  But  in  a 
moment  a  wind  seemed  to  come  up  in  her  and  sweep 
her  acquiescence  away,  leaving  a  bare  house  of  life  for 
evil  desires  to  riot  in.  She  was  angry  with  Laura  for 
painting  that  little  picture  of  happiness,  and  furious 
with  Andy  for  making  part  of  it.  She  felt  bereft, 
with  a  rage  of  loneliness  that  was  new  to  her. 

"  Andy  !  "  she  called.  «  Andy  !  " 

But  Andy  ate  with  wily  fastidiousness,  because 
that  would  please  Laura  best  and  ensure  him  the  last 
morsel ;  he  did  not  hear. 

"  Andy  !  "  she  called  again. 

Even  Laura  failed  to  hear.  She  was  standing  near 
the  cook-stove,  with  a  happy,  absent  look  on  her  face, 
really  thinking  it  was  time  to  dish  up  the  beet-greens. 
But  to  Thyrza  the  look  seemed  to  be  saying,  "Andy 
is  here  in  my  house.  It 's  his  house  and  mine." 

The  fruit  was  eaten  now,  and  the  recipient  of  tribute 
lolled  into  an  easier  attitude,  having  nothing  more  to 
gain.  Not  for  him  were  symbolic  beet-greens  on  an  im 
aginary  platter,  and  when  Laura  somewhat  timidly  of 
fered  them,  knowing  their  value  in  his  eyes,  he  only  said, 
"  Huh  ! "  and  thinking  by  implication  of  dinner,  rose 
to  saunter  off.  But  Thyrza  was  calling  him.  The  cover 
was  off  the  mysterious  parcel  she  had  brought,  and 
now  she  stood  holding  it  in  plain  view,  not  looking  at 
it  herself,  not  even  offering  it  to  him,  but  like  a  guar 
dian  of  a  bribe  whose  value  is  incalculable. 

"  Andy,"  she  was  calling.  "  See  what  I  got  here." 

Laura,  too,  saw  it,  and  with  the  dismay  of  one  who 

37 


THE   STORY  OF   THYRZA 

beholds  household  gods  reft  from  their  place  and  on 
the  way  to  desecration. 

"  Thyrza  Tennant !  "  she  cried.  "  You  've  been  an' 
got  the  stere'scope  off  the  parlor  table.  Why,  Thyrza 
Tennant ! " 

"I  don't  care 'f  I  have,"  responded  Thyrza,  now 
entirely  reckless.  She  was  exhilarated  by  her  own  dash 
and  daring  in  having  abstracted  the  stereoscope  and 
its  dozen  pictures  for  this  purpose,  though  the  need 
had  not  visualized  itself  to  her  when  she  did  it.  She 
only  remembered  then  that  the  McAdams  had  no  ster 
eoscope,  and  that  this,  in  some  moment  of  dearth, 
would  serve  as  bait  for  Andy.  "  Andy,  come  on  over." 

Andy  came.  In  a  moment  he  was  sitting,  not  on 
the  sofa,  as  conventionality  would  have  proposed,  but 
on  the  din  ing-table,  with  his  legs  stretched  out,  re 
garding  the  picture  of  Niagara  Falls.  The  balance  of 
pleasure  had  shifted.  Thyrza  was  happy  now,  and  she 
did  not  think  of  Laura.  She  stood  at  his  side  radi 
antly,  taking  views  after  he  had  done  with  them  and 
furnishing  him  with  fresh  ones.  This  modesty  of 
handmaidenship  was  mostly  imitative.  She  had  seen 
Laura  exercise  it  to  the  life,  and  swift  feminine  in 
stincts  had  assembled  to  show  her  what  she  also  might 
enjoy.  Laura,  in  her  own  house,  was  meekly  sitting 
down  to  mend  a  balm-of-Gilead-leaf  apron. 

A  little  way  down  the  road  a  wagon  had  stopped. 
It  was  the  Peltons',  halting  at  Mrs.  Daniel  Simpson's 
gate  to  leave  her  molasses- jug  which  they  had  taken 
to  town  to  be  filled.  Thence  Rosie  May  had  spied  the 

38 


THE  RIVAL  HOUSES 


three  figures  alarmingly  near  her  play-house  and  had 
at  once  speciously  besought  permission  to  go  and  play 
with  Thyrza  and  Laura. 

"  Mercy  sakes,  child  !  "  said  her  mother,  a  blond 
lady  whose  ankles  seemed  to  be  growing  small  as  she 
enlarged,  and  who  regarded  life  querulously  from  her 
inability  to  "  get  round/'  "  what  you  want  to  go  an' 
green  up  your  best  dress  for  ?  You  set  right  still 
an'  it  '11  be  dinner-time  'fore  you  know  it." 

But  Rosie  May  had  climbed  dextrously  over  the 
wheel,  and  was  speeding  down  the  road  to  her  threat 
ened  homestead.  Her  mother  gave  one  despairing 
glance  after  her.  and  her  father  said,  "  Well !  well !  " 
Then  they  turned  into  the  cross-road  and  went  slowly 
on  to  their  own  house,  not  far  away. 

The  family  in  the  play-house  had  been  unaware 
of  this,  and  so  it  was  with  entire  surprise  that  they 
heard  Rosie  May's  most  plaguing  tone  breaking  on 
the  air. 

"  Playin'  with  the  girls !  Andy  Me  Adam  playin' 
with  the  girls  ! 

"  «  Andy,  Andy,  so  they  say, 
Goes  a-courtin'  night  an'  day, 
Sword  an'  pistol  by  his  side. 
Thyrza  Tennant  shall  be  his  bride.'  " 

Andy  heard  it,  and  grew  deeply,  miserably  red.  He 
saw  with  a  prophetic  vision  how  that  chant  would  echo 
down  his  coming  years.  When  school  began,  Rosie 
May  would  assemble  the  girls  about  her,  and  tell  the 
story  of  finding  Andy  "playin'  house"  with  Thyrza 

39 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

Tennant.  The  girls  would  never  forget,  and  at  such 
times  as  he,  in  a  wholesome  assertion  of  his  free  man 
hood,  was  neither  giving  them  lozenges  nor  haul 
ing  them  uphill,  they  would  raise  the  strident  chorus 
of  "  Andy  McAdam  and  the  play-house."  But  he 
sat  still  and  looked  at  views  with  a  fine  indifference. 
Thyrza  stood  beside  him  for  one  moment,  all  flaming 
wrath.  She,  too,  foresaw  the  future.  More,  she  saw 
Rosie  May,  and  at  last  she  was  not  afraid  of  her. 
As  an  avenging  messenger,  as  one  in  a  dream,  she 
laid  the  views  down  on  the  grass  and  stepped  over 
into  Rosie  May's  house,  and  there  she  fell  upon  walls 
and  furniture  and  wrecked  them.  Thyrza  did  her 
wrecking,  not  in  heat,  but  slowly  and  with  a  terrible 
precision.  She  gathered  up  the  sticks  that  were  the 
wall,  and  laid  them  in  a  neat  pile  at  her  play-house 
door.  Rosie  May  shrieked  aloud. 

"  You  're  spoilin'  my  house !  you  're  spoilin'  my 
house!  Laura,  she's  spoilin'  my  house." 

Laura,  white  with  earnestness  and  horror  over  this 
breaking  of  the  play-house  law,  left  her  own  domain 
and  took  a  little  run  to  Thyrza's  side. 

"  You  must  n't,"  she  kept  saying,  as  if  she  recalled 
her  sister  to  a  better  self.  "  Why,  Thyrza,  only  see 
what  you  're  doin' !  " 

Thyrza,  white  and  calm,  kept  on  doing.  She  col 
lected  the  stones  that  were  the  tables  and  chairs,  and 
with  great  difficulty  replaced  them  on  the  top  of  the 
wall.  They  did  not  seem  to  her  heavy.  The  call  of  a 
great  task  subdued  all  lesser  pains.  One  small,  square 

40 


THE   RIVAL   HOUSES 


stone,  much  prized  by  Rosie  May  as  a  footstool,  she 
cast  deftly  over  the  wall  into  the  field,  and  only  felt 
a  little  surprise  that,  being  square,  it  should  roll  and 
bounce  so  far. 

Andy,  up  to  this  moment,  had  stood  in  awestricken 
silence.  Now  it  became  evident  to  him  that  this  was 
woman's  war,  and  he  affected  to  catch  sight  of  a  squir 
rel  on  the  walnut  over  the  way,  ran  briskly  out  into 
the  road  to  shy  a  stone  at  him,  watched  the  tree 
absorbedly  a  moment,  and  then  sauntered  off,  hands 
in  his  pockets,  whistling  cheerily.  Andy  was  moved 
by  a  fearful  pleasure,  and  he  made  up  his  mind  to  slip 
behind  the  old  elder-bush  further  on  and  see  them 
fight  it  out.  Only  it  did  seem  hard  luck  to  have  the 
quarrel  about  him. 

Rosie  May  was  crying  hysterically.  She  devoted 
herself  to  the  statement  of  obvious  facts. 

"  You  've  spoiled  my  house,"  she  sobbed,  over  and 
over.  "  You  've  took  an'  pulled  it  to  pieces  an'  piled 
it  up  in  a  pile." 

Devilish  intelligence  animated  Thyrza.  She  knew 
just  what  to  answer,  to  leave  Rosie  May  not  one  stone 
upon  another.  Seeking  in  the  treasury  of  her  imagi 
nation,  she  found  the  dart  to  slay  her  enemy's  domes 
tic  peace.  She  placed  herself  in  front  of  Rosie  May  and 
spoke  with  an  awful  clearness  while  Laura,  in  the  back 
ground,  heard  and  trembled. 

"  You  have  n't  any  house,"  said  Thyrza,  drawing 
upon  her  clearest  wells  of  English,  the  more  to  quell 
her  adversary,  for  Rosie  May  said  "ain't"  all  day 

41 


THE   STORY   OF  THYRZA 

long.  "  Don't  you  know  what  those  sticks  are  ?  They 
are  my  pile  of  wood  now.  People  tear  down  old  houses 
and  burn  'em  up.  I  've  torn  down  your  house,  and  I  'm 
going  to  burn  it  in  my  kitchen  stove.  You  thought  it 
was  your  furniture  I  put  up  on  the  wall.  It  wasn't.  It 
was  stones,  just  stones.  You  haven't  any  furniture. 
You  only  had  stones,  and  now  they  're  gone,  same  as 
your  house." 

Rosie  May  looked  at  her  with  wet  eyes  widened  by 
horror.  She  had  accepted  play-houses  with  dolls  and 
mullein  gowns  as  something  in  the  nature  of  things. 
Now  Thyrza  had  made  them  not  to  be.  Neither  of  the 
sisters  had  ever  seen  her  cry,  and  Laura  felt  a  wave 
of  pity  for  the  grief  so  strangely  emphasized  by  the 
child's  best  clothes,  her  leghorn  hat  with  its  pink  buds 
and  the  wide  blue  streamers  "  down  behind."  Thyrza 
had  no  pity.  She  moved  a  step  nearer  her  fallen  ad 
versary  and  looked  her  in  the  eye.  Probably  Thyrza 
was  never  in  her  life  to  know  a  keener  sensation  of 
sheer  temperamental  triumph  than  at  the  instant  when 
she  looked  Rosie  May  in  the  eye  and  knew  she  had 
conquered  her. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  something  else,"  she  said,  relapsing 
slightly  into  her  daily  speech.  "  If  you  was  to  dare 
me,  I'd  snatch  off  your  hat  and  stamp  on  it,  and  I'd 
tear  the  Hamburg  off  your  petticoat." 

Rosie  May  shrieked  and  fled,  and  Thyrza,  while  the 
distracted  pink  dot  raced  down  the  road,  and  Andy 
crashed  into  the  bushes  and  over  the  wall  lest  Rosie 
May  should  know  he  had  been  listening,  turned  to 

42 


THE   RIVAL   HOUSES 


comfort  her  sister.  Laura  looked  as  if  one  universal 
tragedy  had  overwhelmed  them. 

"0  Thyrza  !  "  she  breathed.  "  Thyrza  Tennant !  " 

Thyrza  had  by  no  means  yet  fallen  from  the  height 
of  her  exaltation. 

"Must  be  'most  dinner-time/'  she  said,  from  a  lofty 
calm.  "  Here,  you  take  the  instrument  and  I  '11  take 
the  views." 

Laura  accepted  her  apportionment  meekly  and 
trudged  home  with  heavy  steps.  She  wondered  what 
Mrs.  Pelton  would  say,  and  whether  Rosie  May  would 
ever  give  Thyrza  another  easy  moment.  But  Thyrza, 
her  head  in  the  air,  stepped  on  like  a  queen. 

The  day  passed  and  nothing  happened.  Thyrza 
looked  at  least  for  a  thunder-shower,  which  she  had 
grown  to  consider  an  expression  of  feeling  on  the  part 
of  a  capricious  God.  That  was  a  working  theory  in 
Leafy  Road.  When  the  clouds  darkened  in  the  west 
feminine  conversation  took  on  a  conciliatory  tinge. 
No  one  criticised  a  neighbor,  and  no  one  referred  to 
anything  ecclesiastical  save  in  tones  of  highest  re 
verence.  The  habit  of  life  changed.  Chairs  were  set 
in  tumblers,  and  children  were  perched  on  them  gin 
gerly,  because,  though  it  was  desirable  that  the  chil 
dren  should  not  be  struck,  it  was  also  unnecessary  that 
the  tumblers  should  be  broken.  Sometimes  all  the 
female  members  of  the  family  piled  together  upon  a 
feather-bed,  thence  addressing  adjurations  to  the  male 
who  would  sit  by  the  window,  and  perhaps  even  smoke 
his  pipe.  Thyrza  looked  for  some  such  significant  fin- 

43 


THE   STORY   OF  THYRZA 

ish  to  the  day ;  but  the  west  shone  clear  and  even  the 
winds  were  still.  Her  exaltation  had  lasted,  though 
now  it  plunged  into  the  depth  of  sacrifice.  She  got 
out  some  squares  of  patchwork  and  sat  down  by  the 
kitchen  window,  sewing  "  over  V  over,"  to  the  amaze 
ment  and  admiration  of  her  mother,  who  had  every 
reason  for  regarding  such  a  departure  as  portentous. 
When  Mrs.  Tennant  rose  from  her  chair  to  get  supper, 
she  paused  by  Thyrza  to  say,  almost  shamefacedly, 
because  it  was  bad  for  children  to  be  praised,  — 
"You've  been  a  real  good  little  lady  all  this  after 


noon." 


Thyrza  shook  her  head  renouncingly,  and  sewed 
the  faster,  with  minute  and  accurate  stitches.  Her 
mother  could  not  know  that  she  had  given  up  the 
lesser  world,  moved  by  a  consciousness  of  her  own 
splendor  as  a  leader. 

Laura  said  nothing  that  afternoon  and  did  nothing. 
She  sat  on  the  front  step,  sick  at  heart,  and  waited  for 
Mrs.  Pelton,  probably  holding  Rosie  May  by  the  hand, 
to  come  toddling  in  on  her  weak  ankles  and  cry  for 
vengeance.  But  still  nothing  happened,  nor  did  she 
and  Thyrza,  full  of  their  guilty  secret,  exchange  a 
word  about  the  awful  chances.  The  summer  day 
passed  and  they  sat  on  the  steps  and  had  their  bread 
and  milk.  Then  their  mother  got  up,  yawned  widely, 
and  wound  the  clock.  In  a  moment  more  she  was  clos 
ing  the  doors,  and  they  all  went  up  to  bed  in  the  dark. 
Thyrza's  heart  was  beating  fast.  She  had  felt  that 
even  at  the  last  moment  Mrs.  Pelton  would  appear; 

44 


THE   RIVAL   HOUSES 


but  the  silence  of  the  world  seemed  like  acquiescence 
in  her  own  right  to  judge  and  rule.  Rosie  May's  play 
house  had  been  destroyed,  and  it  was  well  done. 

It  was  about  two  o'clock  when  Thyrza's  eyes  came 
open  with  a  snap  as  if  something  had  called  her.  The 
room  was  full  of  moonlight,  —  the  brightest  light,  it 
seemed  to  her,  that  she  had  ever  seen  when  the  sun 
was  gone.  Even  her  lumpy  blue  pincushion,  that 
Laura  had  "  worked"  for  her  with  much  difficulty  one 
Christmas,  was  outlined  on  the  bureau,  and  she  could 
see  the  shining  track  of  pins  that  made  her  name.  The 
night  was  august  and  wonderful,  but  it  was  terrifying. 
At  once  Thyrza  knew  why  she  was  awake.  She  had 
spoiled  Rosie  May's  play-house,  and  even  the  night 
had  no  shelter  for  her.  Laura  at  her  side  was  breath 
ing  softly.  When  Laura  was  asleep  she  seemed  to  go 
quite  away  from  this  world,  so  that  her  mother,  when 
she  lay  with  her,  sometimes  used  to  put  out  a  hand 
to  see  that  the  child  lived.  Yet  Thyrza  dared  not 
wake  her.  Laura  would  be  a  comfort,  but  Thyrza 
was  outlawed  and  must  look  for  no  assuaging.  Her 
heart  beat  harder  than  it  had  even  in  her  triumph, 
and  she  knew  at  once  that  her  expiation  must  be  com 
pleted  alone.  She  slipped  out  of  bed  and  found  the 
chair  where  her  clothes  lay,  and  as  she  stood  dress 
ing  she  forgot  her  crime  in  the  certainty  of  being 
called  to  a  high  and  dreadful  tusk.  When  she  had  put 
on  her  dress  in  a  fantastic  fashion,  because  she  could 
not  button  it  in  the  back  and  was  obliged  to  slip  her 
arms  in  as  best  she  could  and  fasten  it  "  hindside  be- 

45 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

fore/'  as  she  and  Laura  sometimes  did  when  they  were 
playing  grown-up,  she  crept  to  the  doorway.  But  there 
she  stood  a  moment  and  looked  at  Laura.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  she  was  leaving  all  that  life  held  dear.  She 
might  have  been  going  to  be  a  missionary  on  India's 
coral  strand,  the  beautiful  pink  shore  she  longed  to 
see,  or  to  the  pole  in  search  of  an  explorer-husband. 
These  were  possibilities  she  often  contemplated,  and 
now  they  paled  beside  what  she  really  had  to  do.  The 
stairs  creaked  under  her  foot,  and  once  she  heard  her 
mother  cough,  with  an  alarming  wide-awake  sound. 
That  hurried  her,  and  in  a  moment  she  had  opened 
the  outer  door  and  sped  down  the  garden  walk.  It 
was  a  still  world,  and  a  terrible  one,  chiefly  because 
it  was  so  light.  It  was  clear  enough  to  see  in,  yet  it 
held  more  than  the  horrors  of  the  dark.  For  although 
she  could  put  her  hand  on  anything,  almost  as  if  it 
were  day,  the  things  of  the  night  must  be  there  as 
well,  conscious  of  her  every  step. 

She  had  reached  the  gate,  and  a  dog  barked, — 
Me  Adam's  old  Rove  —  and  it  did  not  seem  to  be  the 
bark  of  Rove,  but  of  all  dogdom  abroad  in  righteous 
guardianship.  She  fled  up  the  path  as  silently  as  she 
had  gone,  and  paused,  her  hand  on  the  door.  A  sound 
came  from  within,  a  little  happy  sound  of  aunt  Ellie 
in  her  bedroom  crooning  herself  to  sleep.  It  was  the 
old  song,  "  Mary  across  the  wild  moor."  Sometimes, 
even  at  midnight,  it  rose  in  a  strenuous  wail ;  but  no 
one  minded,  either  the  Tennants  who  heard  and  turned 
to  go  to  sleep  again,  or  a  passing  neighbor  who 

46 


THE   RIVAL   HOUSES 


might  not  even  pause  to  say,  "  That 's  half-witted 
Ellie."  Until  now  it  had  seemed  to  Thyrza  also  like 
a  personal  possession  of  aunt  Ellie's,  or  a  habit  as 
vital  to  her  as  breath.  Now  it  was  more.  It  was 
friendly  and  comforting.  She  stole  across  the  front 
of  the  house  and  turned  the  corner  to  the  bedroom 
window. 

"  Aunt  Ellie/'  she  whispered. 

Aunt  Ellie  was  there  in  a  moment. 

"That  you?"  she  asked  confidentially,  though 
Thyrza  was  aware  it  was  only  a  form  of  words. 

"Aunt  Ellie,"  said  Thyrza,  "you  get  on  your 
clothes  and  come  down  to  the  gate.  I  want  you  to 
take  a  walk  with  me." 

Aunt  Ellie  seemed  to  be  dancing  in  the  extremity 
of  her  pleasure.  She  did  not  cease  to  sing,  but  it  was 
in  gayer  key.  Thyrza  went  back  again  to  the  gate, 
and  presently  a  little  figure,  all  in  white,  had  joined 
her  there. 

"  Why,  aunt  Ellie,"  she  whispered,  "you  've  got  on 
your  nightie." 

"Short  gownd  an' petticoat !"  laughed  the  gleeful 
voice.  "Short  gownd  an'  petticoat !  " 

Thyrza  took  her  hand  and  they  went  forth,  trust 
ing  each  other  and  the  night.  This  was  the  road  she  had 
taken  that  morning  in  her  merry  mood,  the  stereo 
scope  under  her  arm  and  Andy  sauntering  abreast. 
Now  it  was  a  fearsome  and  beautiful  way,  full  of  un 
couth  shadows  and  wonderful  light.  And  it  was  the 
way  of  repentance.  Old  Rove  heard  them,  and  pat- 

47 


THE   STORY  OF   THYRZA 

tered  down  the  path  a  yard  or  two,  with  a  volley  of 
barks.  Thyrza  walked  the  slower.  When  she  was 
afraid,  she  never  could  run  lest  panic  overtake  her 
and  she  dash  herself  into  the  abyss  of  fear  itself.  Then 
aunt  Ellie  broke  out  in  a  shrill,  wild  adaptation  of  her 
favorite  stave,  and  Thyrza  tightened  her  grasp  on  the 
little  hand. 

"Sing  soft,  aunt  Ellie,"  she  whispered. 

It  would  have  been  of  no  use  to  tell  her  not  to  sing 
at  all.  So  aunt  Ellie  sang  soft. 

o 

They  came  to  the  play-house,  and  Thyrza  led  her 
little  mate  to  a  flat  stone  she  knew. 

"Sit  there/'  she  bade  her.  "Don't  you  move.  I'll 
be  through  soon's  I  can." 

Aunt  Ellie  sat  down,  and  beat  a  noiseless  tune  to 
her  song,  and  Thyrza,  in  a  wild  haste,  set  about  the  re 
building  of  Rosie  May's  house.  There  was  the  pile  of 
sticks  so  lately  turned  to  fire-wood.  She  knew  their 
place.  How  often  had  she  looked  at  them  and  hated 
them  for  lying  in  a  certain  way  because  Rosie  May 
had  put  them  there.  Now  they  were  going  back  again. 
They  fell  into  form  as  marvelously  as  the  foundations 
of  the  Temple  of  Solomon.  The  stones  that  had  been 
the  tables  and  chairs  were  rigorously  disposed,  and 
the  last  and  heaviest  task  of  all  was  that  of  seeking 
out  the  little  square  footstool  in  the  pasture  where 
she  had  thrown  it.  The  stone  had  bounced  a  long 
way.  It  seemed  merry  of  it  that  morning,  but  hateful 
at  night.  She  was  afraid  in  the  unfriendly  pasture, 
and  once  there  was  a  rustling,  as  if  aunt  Ellie  had 

48 


THE   RIVAL   HOUSES 


started  to  go  home.  But  at  last  her  hands  fell  upon 
the  little  stone,  and  she  hugged  it  to  her  breast  for  a 
minute,  and  felt  she  loved  it.  Then  it  was  dropped 
into  place  and  the  task  was  done.  Aunt  Ellie  was 
fantastically  stepping  back  and  forth  in  the  moon 
light  with  her  shadow,  but  she  hardly  started  when 
Thyrza  ran  to  her  and  took  her  hand,  saying,  "Come, 
let 's  go  home !  let 's  go  quick."  The  strange  thing 
about  aunt  Ellie  was  that  you  could  never  surprise 
her  very  much  if  she  realized  you  were  "own  folks." 
Now  she  took  Thyrza's  handclasp  as  joyously  as  she 
had  accepted  it  in  coming,  and  they  ran  along  the 
road  together  as  if,  she  must  have  thought,  it  was  a 
merry  game.  But  to  Thyrza  it  was  a  flight. 

When  they  got  back  to  the  house,  after  this  amaz 
ing  ordeal,  nothing  had  changed.  Thyrza  could  hardly 
believe  it  had  all  passed  while  her  mother  and  Laura 
slept,  and  the  house  itself  kept  its  kind  indifference. 
Aunt  Ellie  was  tired  now.  She  slipped  into  her  bed 
room,  with  no  desire  to  sing,  and  Thyrza  stole  up 
stairs.  Her  mother  gave  a  little  cough.  It  seemed  the 
same  wide-awake  cough  before  the  night's  work  had 
begun.  Thyrza  could  not  undress.  She  was  too  tired, 
and  in  the  morning  the  first  she  knew  of  the  day  was 
that  Laura,  in  her  nightgown,  her  eyes  big  with  won 
der,  was  standing  by  the  bed  and  saying,  — 

"  Why,  Thyrza  Tennant !  you  slept  in  your 
clothes." 

But  she  seemed  a  part  of  the  dream  that  had  begun 
yesterday  forenoon,  and  Thyrza  did  not  feel  bound 

49 


THE   STORY  OF   THYRZA 

to  answer  her ;  and  at  breakfast  her  mother,  who  was 
going  to  the  Corners  to  get  some  twist  and  take  some 
measurements,  proved  too  deeply  occupied  with  telling 
them  when  to  blaze  a  fire  for  dinner  to  return  upon 
the  past.  So  the  breakfast  dishes  were  washed,  and 
Mrs.  Tennant  had  gone,  before  the  deeds  of  yesterday 
began  to  cast  even  a  shadow.  Thyrza  was  feeling  brave 
now  and  very  good.  She  had  made  her  sacrifice.  She 
had  every  reason  to  believe  all  the  hosts  of  heaven 
were  again  on  her  side  as,  in  some  mysterious  man 
ner,  in  spite  of  the  immutability  of  fact,  they  always 
seemed  to  be.  She  knew  she  had  shown  extraordinary 
courage  in  going  out  at  midnight,  —  for  to  call  it 
midnight  made  it  blacker  yet,  —  and  building  up  a 
play-house  with  her  own  atoning  hands.  And  just  as 
she  lay  down  on  the  parlor  sofa  in  the  dark,  to  think 
it  over  and  roll  under  her  tongue  the  sensation  of  be 
ing  brave  and  good  once  more,  Laura  appeared  before 
her,  distraught  and  all  but  speechless. 

"  0  Thyrza !  "  she  said,  "  who  do  you  think 's  comin' 
up  to  the  front  door  ?  It 's  Rosie  May.  She  's  all  soul 
alone,  an'  she's  got  a  plate." 

Thyrza  rose  with  the  majesty  of  the  school-teacher 
going  to  the  board  to  set  a  sum.  Her  heart  did,  it  is 
true,  give  one  qualm,  but  she  bade  it  down. 

"I  '11  go  to  the  door,"  said  she. 

It  was  a  new  Rosie  May  before  her,  a  little  depre 
cating  girl  with  apprehension  written  all  over  her. 
Even  her  clothes  seemed  to  have  partaken  of  this  new 
abasement.  Usually  they  were  finicking  clothes,  all 

50 


THE   RIVAL   HOUSES 


points  and  patterns.  Now  she  wore  an  old  tyer  of  a 
miserable  chocolate  color  that  her  mother  had  selected 
"  for  common,"  and  that  Eosie  May,  being  wise 
in  such  matters,  had  refused.  But  this  morning  it 
looked  as  if  she  had  lacked  the  courage  to  take  a 
stand.  There  she  was,  a  suppliant,  holding  out  a 
plate  with  a  clean  butter-cloth  covering  something 
within. 

"  Mother 's  been  making  cup-cakes,"  said  she,  in  a 
small  voice.  "  I  brought  you  over  two-three.  We  can 
eat  'em  together." 

In  a  flash  Thyrza  learned  a  great  page  of  worldly 
wisdom,  —  wisdom  that  protects  and  yet  is  hateful 
in  the  having.  Andy  had  foretold  it  long  ago.  "  If 
you  'd  only  bat  Rosie  May  over  the  head  once,"  he 
had  prophesied,  "  you  would  n't  have  no  trouble  with 
her."  And  Kosie  May  had  been  batted,  and  the 
trouble  had  ceased.  This  was  no  ogress  full  of  evil 
arts.  It  was  only  a  little  girl  like  another,  and  she 
was  named  Rosie  May. 

Thyrza  meant  to  do  the  thing  magnificently.  She 
knew  how.  It  was  only  to  bend  forward  with  a  be 
nignant  majesty  and  accept  the  cakes.  Then  she 
could  say,  "Come  in,  Rosie  May.  We'll  eat  them 
together,"  in  a  tone  that  should  imply,  "If  you'll 
be  very  humble  and  behave  yourself,  and  promise 
never  to  forget  how  you've  acted  all  along."  But 
something,  a  kind  of  warm  emotion,  got  hold  of  her 
as  it  often  did,  and  she  plunged  out  of  the  doorway 
to  the  step  and  received  the  cakes  impetuously,  call- 

51 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

ing  Laura  as  she  went.  Laura  instantly  appeared.  It 
looked  as  if  she  had  been  listening.  Thyrza  was  fer 
vid  with  a  perfectly  beautiful  solution  of  the  situa 
tion. 

"  Come  on  down  to  the  play-houses/'  she  was 
urging.  It  was  a  blow  to  her  to  remember  that  Andy 
was  gone  to  the  Corners.  She  wanted  the  setting  to 
be  like  yesterday's.  "  We  '11  have  a  surprise-party,  in 
Rosie  May's  play-house." 

The  suppliant  shrank.  Even  Laura  gave  a  quick 
reproving  glance.  It  seemed  coarse  and  cruel  to  speak 
thus  of  ruined  firesides. 

"I  guess  I'll  go  home,"  said  Rosie  May  timidly. 

But  Thyrza  seized  her  by  the  hand.  Now  at  last 
she  knew  how  it  felt  to  dominate,  though  for  the 

f  O 

general  good. 

"You're  coming  to  the  play-house/'  she  an 
nounced.  "  You  '11  see  !  Laura,  you  carry  the  cakes. 
Come  on !  " 

She  raced  Rosie  May  off  down  the  road,  and  Laura 
followed,  in  patient  guardianship.  Laura  did  not 
know  this  new  Thyrza.  It  hardly  seemed  possible  to 
guess  what  she  would  do  next, —  even,  it  might  be, 
sacrifice  Rosie  May  in  some  fashion  on  her  own  dese 
crated  hearth.  Thyrza  was  playing  now  that  she  was 
a  horse  and  trotting  gig,  and  she  rushed  up  to  the 
play-house  door  and  stopped  in  a  way  that  suggested 
to  Rosie  May's  perturbed  imagination  no  lesser  ordeal 
than  "  snap  the  whip."  But  Rosie  May  forgot  her 
fears  in  what  looked  like  even  a  superstitious  terror. 

52 


THE  RIVAL  HOUSES 


"  Why !  "  she  breathed.  "  Why !  my  play-house  !  " 

There  it  lay  in  its  forenoon  calm,  the  house  that 
yesterday  had  tottered  to  its  fall.  Instantly  Thyrza 
saw  what  a  merry  game  it  was  to  ignore  her  wonder. 

"  I  don't  see 's  anything 's  the  matter  with  the  play 
houses/'  she  said  gayly.  "  Come  in  mine,  if  you 
don't  want  to  open  yours.  Maybe  yours  is  locked 
and  you've  forgot  the  key.  I'll  get  out  the  table." 
She  spread  the  tablecloth  and  laid  the  cup-cakes  on 
it  in  a  tempting  triangle.  "  Come,  Laura !  Supper 's 
ready." 

But  Kosie  May  could  hardly  eat.  She  kept  taking 
little  nibbles  from  the  edge  of  her  cake  and  looking 
furtively  at  Thyrza  and  the  play-house.  Finally  she 
ventured,  — 

"  Thyrza,  you  remember  how  we  was  down  here 
yesterday  an'  all?" 

"I  wasn't,"  said  Thyrza,  full  of  cup-cake  and  glo 
rious  invention.  "  Laura  'n'  I  went  to  see  great-aunt 
Mary." 

But  great-aunt  Mary  was  fifty  miles  away  and 
Rosie  May  knew  it.  Laura,  pale  with  moral  awe, 
opened  her  mouth  and  closed  it  speechlessly.  Rosie 
May  looked  stunned  in  a  world  too  complicated  for 
her.  But  in  the  midst  of  Thyrza's  pride  of  life,  a 
shadow  fell  upon  her.  She  remembered  how  beautiful 
it  was  to  sacrifice,  and  she  remembered  God.  She  fell 
on  her  knees. 

"  0  Rosie  May,"  she  declaimed,  in  what  was 
known  as  a  prayer-meeting  voice,  full  of  minor  ca~ 

53 


THE   STORY   or   THYRZA 

dence,  "I'm  a  miserable  sinner.  Forgive  me  as  I 
trust  I  am  now  forgiven  above." 

Rosie  May  stared  at  her  abased  there  on  the  play 
house  floor,  and  the  old  look  came  into  her  face,  the 
look  of  cruelty  and  base  mastership. 

"Thyrza  Tennant,"  she  began  sharply,  "what  do 
you  mean  aetin'  as  you  do?  Anybody  'd  think  you 
was  in  prayer-meetin',  to  say  the  least." 

Thyrza  caught  the  look.  Her  eyes  met  and  held  it. 
But  hers  had  no  answering  sharpness.  They  were 
reflecting,  wondering  eyes.  She  had  really  found  out, 
they  said,  that  we  are  not  to  forget  our  adversary  as 
our  adversary,  even  after  we  have  eaten  the  cup-cake 
of  peace  together.  For  an  instant  she  felt  the  old 
thrill  of  fear.  Then  she  remembered  the  little  sup 
pliant  that  had  come  bearing  cakes.  It  was  only  Rosie 
May.  She  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  I  guess  I  do  remember  yesterday 
forenoon.  I  tore  your  house  down,  didn't  I?  Well, 
I  built  it  up  afterwards,  to  see  if  I  could  remember 
how  it  went.  But  I  'd  tear  it  down  again  if  I  took  a 
notion.  Come,  let 's  get  some  mulleins  and  trim  hats." 

Rosie  May  obediently  did.  She  plucked  the  leaves 
and  pulled  the  grass  for  strings,  and  when  the  hats 
were  trimmed  she  admired  Thyrza's  way  of  doing, 
and  asked  for  directions,  quite  like  a  milliner's  ap 
prentice.  Laura  looked  on  in  wonder.  She  had  always 
known  this  was  only  Rosie  May,  but  somehow  she  sus 
pected  Thyrza  had  been  a  long  time  finding  it  out. 


Ill 

THE  GOLDEN  APPLE 


day  when  Thyrza  was  a  little  over  fourteen  she 
sat  in  the  orchard  eating  an  "  August  sweet/'  and, 
as  she  ate,  breaking  into  the  beautiful  regular  cham 
bers  where  the  brown  seeds  lay.  She  was  counting  the 
seeds.  Thyrza  counted  a  great  deal  at  this  time.  Now 
it  was  a  flower  with  florets  or  regular  petals,  or  it  was 
even  the  number  of  leaves  on  a  spray.  Always  her 
voice,  as  she  counted,  beat  on  the  words,  "  yes,  no, 
yes,  no,"  in  an  earnest  monotone.  "Yes  "  meant  that 
before  she  should  be  too  old  she  might  go  to  some 
young  ladies'  academy  and  learn  the  things  that  make 
people  great.  "No"  meant  that  she  could  never  go 
at  all,  and  that  the  rest  of  her  life  would  be  spent 
here  in  Leafy  Road,  keeping  the  bread  sweet  and 
covering  the  squashes  in  a  frost,  and  even  making 
little  thick  stubbed  trousers,  like  her  mother,  and  tak 
ing  her  pay  in  "sass."  To-day,  as  she  reached  "yes," 
her  mother's  voice  smote  shrilly  upon  her  from  the 
house. 

"  Thyrza !  Laura  !  Where  be  you  ?  " 

Thyrza  knew  where  Laura  was.  She  had  gone  with 
Andy  Me  Adam  over  to  the  old  cider-mill,  with  a 
peck  of  apples  tugged  between  them,  to  see  if  they 

55 


THE   STORY  OF  THYRZA 

could  start  up  the  mill  and  make  it  go.  Andy  had  a 
strong  disbelief  that  anything  short  of  a  horse  could 
turn  the  great  wooden  screw,  but  he  was  willing  to 
risk  walking  three-quarters  of  a  mile  on  the  chance, 
and  he  was  prepared  to  assert,  and  indeed  had  sworn  it, 
that  a  peck  of  apples  would  make  as  much  as  a  quart 
of  cider,  if  you  could  only  squeeze  it  out.  They  had 
been  willing  that  Thyrza  should  go, — not  glad  but 
willing,  because  her  perennial  hopefulness  was  hinder 
ing  on  such  solemn  expeditions ;  but  Barton  Gorse 
had  that  day  given  her  the  "Age  of  Fable,"  and  she 
had  to  read  it  very  fast  and  all  at  once.  And  when 
she  found  out  what  a  beautiful  book  it  was,  she  had 
to  stop  in  a  fever  and  count  her  apple-seeds,  to  see  if 
she  was  to  read  such  books  all  her  life. 

"Thyrza,"  came  her  mother's  voice.  "Laura!  You 
step  yourselves  here." 

Mrs.  Tennant  had,  when  she  was  hurried  or  busy, 
the  crudest  phrases  ready  to  her  lips;  but  they  never 
purported  displeasure  with  the  children.  They  were 
the  sharpest  weapons  she  could  find  to  cut  at  circum 
stance,  and  she  used  them  for  utility's  sake.  Thyrza 
took  her  answer  from  the  apple-seed  she  had  reached 
at  "  yes,"  and  rising  slowly,  threw  the  rest  away. 

This  was  the  answer  she  wanted,  and  she  told  her 
self  speciously  that  since  her  mother  called  her,  she 
must  go,  and  take  it  for  a  finality.  But  half-way  up 
the  narrow  path  worn  by  children's  feet  to  the  orchard 
play-corners,  she  stopped,  considered,  and  then  ran 
back.  With  a  passionate  determination  to  play  the 

56 


THE   GOLDEN  APPLE 


game  in  honor,  she  dropped  on  the  ground  and  picked 
up  all  the  seeds  she  could  find;  but  when  she  had 
finished  her  count,  still  it  ended  on  "  yes."  Then,  with 
a  satisfied  delight  in  her  own  deep  sense  of  probity, 
she  clapped  her  book  under  her  arm  and  sped  up  the 
orchard  path.  Mrs.  Tennant  had  done  calling,  but  she 
stood  in  the  doorway,  shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand. 
It  was  as  if  she  had  been  seeking  so  earnestly  that 
she  forgot  to  go  in  when  her  children  failed  to  come. 
In  the  other  hand  she  held  a  letter,  and  Thyrza  felt 
instantly  excited  at  the  unusualness  of  that.  A  letter 
might  signify  anything.  Her  mother  looked  down  at 
her  abstractedly.  It  almost  seemed  that,  although  she 
was  seeking  a  listener,  she  was  prepared  to  give  her 
own  comments  and  answers. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "your  great-aunt  Mary  Hub- 
bard  's  comin V 

Thyrza's  face  took  on  deepest  meaning. 

"  0  mother  !  "  she  cried.  And  then,  "  0  fudge  !  " 

Her  mother  was  not  listening.  She  opened  the  letter 
again,  a  meagre  missive  on  a  half -sheet  of  ruled  paper, 
and  held  it  far  away.  She  had  mislaid  her  glasses, 
and  having  once  tasted  the  news  in  the  note,  there 
was  no  time  to  find  them.  "  There 's  more  of  it,"  she 
continued,  frowning.  "  I  can't  hardly  make  it  out  —  " 

"  Let  me  have  it,"  said  Thyrza,  with  the  lavish  help 
fulness  of  one  to  whom  glasses  are  yet  fifty  years  away. 
"She  says  —  0  mother  !  mother  !  "  The  word  ended 
in  a  little  cry  of  joy,  of  terror.  The  apple-seeds  had 
told  the  truth,  and  like  older  suppliants  of  necromancy, 

57 


THE   STORY   OF  THYRZA 

Thyrza  was  dismayed  at  the  plainness  of  the  an 
swer. 

"  She  wants  to  take  one  of  us,  Laura  or  me,  to  live 
with  her  for  three  years,  and  see  if  she  can't  make 
something  of  us." 

Her  mother  was  regarding  her  in  wonder. 

"Well,"  she  said,  at  length,  "I  never  should  ha' 
thought  you  'd  be  bewitched  to  go  an'  live  with  great- 
aunt  Mary  Hubbard." 

Thyrza  met  her  wondering  eyes  with  the  vivid  star 
light  look  she  wore  when  the  world  seemed  to  her  as  it 
did  in  gay  moments,  a  beautiful  plaything  waiting  for 
her  to  toss. 

"But  see !  "  she  cried,  "see  what  she  says.  She'll 
send  us  to  the  academy,  and  let  us  have  lessons  on 
Arabella's  piano, — Arabella  that  died.  0  mother, 
three  years  aren't  much  !  In  three  years  I  could  learn 
everything  at  the  academy  and  play  the  piano,  and  I 
should  be  home." 

"  Well,  for  mercy  sakes,"  returned  Mrs.  Tennant, 
"so  you've  got  it  all  settled.  Don't  she  say  you  or 
Laura?  How'd  you  know  it's  goin'  to  be  you?" 

Thyrza  gave  one  fleeting  confirmatory  glance  at  the 
letter,  but  did  not  blench. 

"  Laura  don't  want  to  go,"  she  responded  joyously. 
"  She  just  hates  school.  She  hates  great-aunt  Mary, 
too,  just  as  much  as  I  do ;  but  I'd  go  with  —  "  She 
had  brought  up  against  the  name  of  an  eminent  and 
very  wicked  personage  Andy  was  in  the  habit  of  invok 
ing  in  moments  of  deep  emotion,  but  concluded  not  to 

58 


THE   GOLDEN  APPLE 


mention  him.  "I'd  go  with  anybody — for  three  years/' 
she  ended  weakly. 

Mrs.  Tennant  still  stood  looking  at  her.  She  knew 
all  about  Thyrza's  desire  for  seminaries  and  music  and 
high  places,  but  she  had  never  seen  the  lure  in  evidence. 
Already  it  had  wrought  strange  wonders.  This  little 
girl  with  the  glowing  cheeks  and  brilliant  eyes  hardly 
seemed  to  be  her  own  daughter  at  all.  Mrs.  Tennant 
was  uncertain  whether  to  be  proud  of  having  a  child 
who  was  so  "  smart/'  or  to  recognize  the  pain  in  her 
own  heart,  premonitory  of  parting. 

"Well/'  she  said,  at  this  point,  "I  guess  I  '11  go  in 
an'  se'  down.  My  knees  feel  kinder  weak." 

Thyrza  did  not  go  in  with  her.  Though  her  own 
knees  were  unwontedly  strong,  she  sat  down  on  the 
step  and  read  the  letter  over  and  over,  as  if  she  might 
spy  out  a  little  more  of  great-aunt  Mary  Hubbard's 
mind.  And  when  at  dusk  Laura  came  draggling  in, 
ciderless  but  still  happy,  because  Andy  had  taken  her 
on  a  mile  farther  to  see  a  litter  of  pups,  she  only  yawned 
when  Thyrza  plunged  at  her  down  the  garden-path 
and  thrust  the  letter  on  her.  Laura  read  it  with  some 
difficulty,  and  then  yawned  wider.  She  was  not  really 
used  to  aunt  Mary's  hand,  and  anything  connected 
with  paper  and  ink  had,  to  her  mind,  a  scholastic  na 
ture  and  was  to  be  avoided.  She  put  the  half -sheet 
into  its  folds  and  gave  it  back. 

"  Anything  for  supper?  "  she  asked,  with  a  robust 
interest. 

"  Laura,  don't  you  see  ?  "  cried  Thyrza,  in  her  most 

59 


THE   STORY  OF   THYRZA 

imperative  tone.  "  She  '11  take  one  of  us  for  three  years, 
three  to  five  years." 

"  I  guess  she  will,"  said  Laura,  beginning  her  sturdy 
march  supperward.  "  I  would  n't  live  with  her  if  she 
was  all  gold-diamonds,  an'  I  '11  tell  her  so,  too.  I  don't 
want  none  of  her  education,"  continued  Laura  loftily, 
declining,  in  the  rigor  of  argument,  upon  a  conclusion 
that  had  never  occurred  to  her  before.  "She  need  n't 
trouble  herself.  I  guess  I  know  enough  now." 

"  But  it's  to  use  Arabella's  piano." 

"Fush  on  Arabella's  piano!  I've  heard  about 
Arabella's  piano  till  I  'm  sick  an'  tired  of  it." 

Laura  had  some  curiously  mature  styles  of  expres 
sion,  and  they  always  seemed  appropriate  to  her.  She 
used  them  with  entire  simplicity,  and  they  fell  as  they 
did  from  her  mother's  lips. 

Mrs.  Tennant  was  very  silent  that  night,  and  no 
one  spoke  of  the  letter.  Thyrza  had  a  list  of  preposi 
tions  to  learn,  but  she  left  the  book  face  downward 
on  the  table  and  walked  back  and  forth  through  the 
room.  She  could  not  calm  herself.  Outside  there  was 
a  thick  mist  driving  in,  and  once,  when  her  thoughts 
seemed  burning  her  up,  she  went  out  and  ran  back 
and  forth  in  front  of  the  house,  and  reappeared,  her 
cheeks  and  her  hair  wet  with  little  globes.  Laura,  by 
the  window,  had  forgotten  the  letter.  She  was  trying 
to  teach  the  cat  to  jump  over  her  hands,  and  puss,  in 
sulks,  flattened  herself  to  the  ground  and  put  back 
her  ears.  Mrs.  Tennant  was  sewing  with  her  short 
quick  stitches,  mending  a  rent  in  a  little  coat,  and 

60 


THE   GOLDEN   APPLE 


when  Thyrza  came  in  she  looked  up  at  her  briefly  and 
sighed.  But  Thyrza  did  not  hear  the  sigh.  She  was 
thinking  about  aunt  Mary's  Arabella's  piano. 

In  two  days  aunt  Mary  Hubbard  came.  When  the 
girls  got  home  from  school  she  was  there,  and  they 
knew  it,  not  only  because  the  parlor  shades  were  up, 
but  because  their  mother,  warm  and  tired,  and  with 
a  worried  triangular  wrinkle  between  the  eyes,  met 
them  at  the  gate  and  bade  them,  in  a  tone  of  sharp 
anxiety,  to  be  sure  and  not  make  any  noise;  aunt 
Mary  had  one  of  her  headaches. 

"  No,  I  ain't  either,  Clary,"  came  that  masterful 
voice  from  the  house.  "  Not  now,  anyways.  I  guess 
I  've  managed  to  stave  it  off.  Let  'em  come  right  in 
here  an'  tell  me  whether  they've  been  good  girls." 
It  was  among  aunt  Mary's  ill  qualities  that  she  could 
hear  more  and  see  more  to  the  general  disadvantage 
than  was  to  be  expected  of  normal  ears  and  eyes,  and 
she  was  always  candidly  ready  to  act  upon  her  gar 
nered  knowledge.  At  once  the  children  found  them 
selves  combating  their  old  mood  of  resistance.  "  Come 
right  in  here,"  she  called  again.  "  I  ain't  seen  any 
little  girls  for  quite  a  spell." 

They  turned  in  at  the  parlor  door,  invested  sud 
denly  with  awkwardness.  There  she  was  by  the  win 
dow,  her  crochet-work  in  her  large,  smooth  hands.  It 
was  one  of  their  quarrels  with  her,  based  on  an  unwill 
ing  admiration,  that  she  was  always  crocheting  while 
their  mother  had  to  sew  on  thick,  unpleasant  clothes. 
Thyrza  realized,  with  a  sudden  throb  of  horror  at 

61 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

herself  and  her  glorious  future,  that  she  did  actually 
hate  aunt  Mary.  There  were  fewer  people  and  things 
to  be  hated  all  the  time,  now,  but  aunt  Mary  never 
ceased  to  loom  in  a  bulk  deserving  of  all  dislikes  com 
pounded.  She  was  so  large,  so  fresh-colored,  with  the 
little  red  veins  on  her  cheek-bones,  her  forehead  shone 
so,  and  her  gold-bowed  glasses  did  so  glitter.  She  was 
tall  and  portly  and  tightly  corseted,  and  her  glossy 
black  silk  had  innumerable  ruffles  round  the  bottom, 
and  above  them  as  many  rows  of  velvet.  But  the  ad 
junct  which  Thyrza  could  never  forgive  her  was  her 
wide  scalloped  collar,  with  its  precise  ceilets  worked 
by  those  same  smooth  hands.  She  had  over  and  over 
again  seen  aunt  Mary  sitting  and  making  oeilets, 
stabbing  the  collar  with  a  fine  precision,  and  then 
buttonholing  the  round  she  had  made  ;  and  this  was 
at  the  very  time,  on  one  winter  day,  when  Mrs.  Ten- 
nant  had  been  obliged  to  sew  herself  into  a  pain  in 
her  side,  to  finish  a  pair  of  trousers  for  the  grange. 
"  She  might  at  least/'  thought  Thyrza  passionately, 
on  that  day,  "  have  offered  to  hem  a  leg,  while  mo 
ther  faced  the  top."  But  no !  she  sat  there  stabbing 
oeilets  in  a  pattern,  and  estimating  Mrs.  Tennant's 
household  expenses,  and  telling  her  meat  was  n't  so 
wholesome  after  all,  and  it  certainly  did  cost  terribly. 
Indeed,  there  seemed  to  be  a  fate  for  Thyrza  in  the 
very  sound  of  oeilets,  for  that  winter  she  failed  on 
the  word  in  a  spelling-match,  and  stupid  Rosie  May 
had  gone  above  her. 

But  now  the  two  girls,  clutching  at  their  books,  as 

62 


THE   GOLDEN   APPLE 


a  safeguard  o£  some  incomprehensible  sort,  stood 
foolishly  before  the  monitory  guest,  and  their  mother, 
in  the  background,  regarded  them  with  an  uneasy 
shame,  because  they  hardly  seemed  to  be  doing  what 
was  expected  of  them ;  then  she  glanced  at  aunt 
Mary  in  a  pervasive  humbleness. 

Aunt  Mary  let  fall  her  work,  and  looked  up  over 
her  glasses  with  the  particular  effect  of  brow  which, 
as  even  children  know,  conveys  reproof. 

"  Stand  up  straight,  Thyrza,"  she  admonished  her. 
"  I  don't  know  wherever  you  got  that  kind  o'  shoul 
ders." 

Thyrza  gave  a  miserable  little  shrug,  and  then 
crouched  into  her  former  abasement.  She  knew  quite 
well  that  when  she  ran  with  the  cat  over  her  shoul 
ders  they  were  straight  enough,  but  craven  timidity 
before  one  who  was  kin  to  her  only  in  blood  was 
bowing  her  little  frame.  Aunt  Mary  was  still  regard 
ing  them  with  the  terrible  stare  of  one  who  is  about 
to  buy.  Then  she  began  to  talk  about  them  to  their 
mother,  as  if  they  were  articles  of  merchandise. 
Laura  bore  it  very  well.  She  still  had  no  wish  to 
please  aunt  Mary,  and  she  saw  no  reason  why  any 
person  who  could  speak  the  language  should  not  say 
in  her  presence  that  she  had  great-uncle  Pike's  fresh 
complexion  and  Martha  Pearson's  nose.  But  Thyrza 
stood  in  a  scarlet  rage,  feeling  all  the  recoil  of  an 
invaded  personality.  She  forgot  the  neat  speeches 
she  had  in  readiness  to  make  aunt  Mary  see  that 
her  bounty  was  appreciated.  "  Is  the  course  very  se- 

63 


THE   STORY  OF   THYRZA 

vere  at  the  academy  ?  "  she  had  meant  to  say,  or,  at 
a  moment  of  great  daring,  when  aunt  Mary  was 
softened  by  the  prospect  of  having  a  little  girl  come 
to  live  with  her,  "  I  shall  be  very  careful  of  Arabella's 
piano."  But  she  could  not  have  offered  these  neat 
conceptions  now,  had  her  whole  academic  course  de 
pended  on  it.  Suddenly  aunt  Mary  took  off  her 
glasses  altogether,  and  fixed  the  children  with  the 
direct  glance  of  her  small,  determined  eyes. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  which  little  girl  wants  to  live 
with  me  the  most?  " 

Thyrza  became  aware  in  wonder  that  Laura  was 
actually  returning  the  glance  with  unmoved  fearless 
ness,  and  she  realized  also  that,  after  that  discovery, 
she  could  not  do  the  same.  She  knew  the  reason,  too. 
Laura  did  not  want  to  go.  There  was  nothing  in 
aunt  Mary's  gift  that  she  in  the  least  desired.  But 
Thyrza,  afflicted  by  a  kind  of  shame,  was  sensible 
that  she  desired  the  things  aunt  Mary  had  to  give, 
but  that  she  hated  the  prospect  of  three  years  of 
ceilets  and  inquiring  looks  with  a  vehemence  not  to  be 
mitigated  even  by  the  vision  of  Arabella's  piano. 
Conscious  of  her  greed  and  her  ingratitude,  she 
dropped  the  lids  over  her  contrite  eyes.  Mrs.  Ten- 
nant  had  put  out  a  hand  and  laid  it  on  Thyrza's 
shoulder.  The  touch  seemed  like  an  endearment. 

"  This  is  the  one,"  she  said,  "  that  thinks  she 
better  go." 

Aunt  Mary  turned  the  ray  of  her  inquisitive  vision 
full  upon  Thyrza  shrinking  in  her  shame. 

64 


THE   GOLDEN  APPLE 


"  She  does,  does  she  ?  "  said  aunt  Mary.  "  Well, 
we'll  see  which  pleases  me  the  best." 

Then,  somehow,  after  an  awkward  battle  of  pre 
cedence  they  got  out  of  the  room,  and  they  did  not 
see  aunt  Mary  again  until  supper-time,  when  she  re 
buked  their  mother  for  admitting  them  to  the  feast 
of  cream-of -tartar  biscuits  she  was  herself  bountifully 
enjoying,  with  the  fiat,  "  If  't  was  a  child  of  mine, 
she  should  n't  set  her  lips  to  hot  bread  nor,  least  of  all, 
a  pie." 

After  supper,  as  Mrs.  Tennant  was  putting  away 
the  milk,  Thyrza  appeared  suddenly  under  her  elbow, 
lifted  to  set  the  pan  on  a  high  shelf,  away  from  the 
cat. 

"  Mother,"  she  whispered,  "  I  want  to  go  over  to 
Mr.  Gorse's  and  carry  him  back  his  book." 

"  Well,"  said  her  mother,  "  you  come  home  'fore 
dark."  She,  too,  was  impressed  with  the  advisability 
of  thinning  the  social  atmosphere  while  aunt  Mary 
stayed. 

Thyrza  took  her  book  under  her  arm  and  fled  up 
the  darkening  road.  The  old  Gorse  house  was  half 
a  mile  away,  and  she  knew  whatever  bogies  there  were 
she  could  escape  by  a  sudden  flight  into  a  friendly 
dooryard.  It  was  not  so  the  other  way,  where  the 
great  poplar  stood,  its  leaves  perpetually  whispering. 
When  she  stepped  into  its  shadow  like  a  haunted 
room,  she  always  frightened  herself  anew  by  saying 
over  in  her  mind  a  verse  she  had  read  in  one  of  Bar 
ton  Gorse's  books  :  — 

65 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

"  Like  one  that  on  a  lonesome  road, 
Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread, 
And  having  once  turned  round,  walks  on 
And  turns  no  more  his  head  ; 
Because  he  knows  a  frightful  fiend 
Doth  close  behind  him  tread." 

Sometimes  it  was  the  frightful  fiend  that  was  the 
most  terrible ;  sometimes  it  was  the  pursuing  elephant. 
But  to-night  it  was  quite  different.  She  was  on  the 
friendly  road,  and  even  the  vague  excitement  of 
aunt  Mary's  visit  helped  to  keep  her  heart  up.  Her 
blood  went  faster,  and  she  began  to  run  when  she  was 
at  the  big  white  gate,  and,  playing  she  was  a  horse 
and  coach,  she  went  up  the  driveway  in  a  whirl. 

ii 

Barton  Gorse  was  sitting  on  the  veranda,  his  long 
legs  over  the  rail.  There  were  voices  from  the  kitchen 
in  the  ell  —  Michael  and  his  sister  Katie,  who  had 
kept  the  house  for  old  Judge  Gorse,  and  who  now 
stayed  on  while  the  young  grandson  came  to  in 
herit.  Barton  Gorse  was  very  lonely  in  his  earthly 
state.  He  had  one  sister  who  lived  mysteriously  apart 
from  him,  and  when  his  grandfather  died  he  seemed 
to  find  comfort  in  staying  at  the  old  place,  reading 
his  book  and  lounging  along  the  river  in  his  boat,  day 
and  night  companioned  only  by  Michael  and  Katie. 
The  townsfolk  had  a  liking  for  him,  though  his  sol 
itary  habits  marked  him  "as  odd  as  Dick's  hatband." 
He  was  not  very  strong,  they  knew,  but  whether  he 
was  consumptive  or  not  they  could  not  tell.  When 

66 


THE   GOLDEN  APPLE 


they  asked  him,  he  only  smiled.  But  he  had  one 
playfellow.  Since  the  time  when  Thyrza  had  "  given 
out/'  as  the  neighbors  said,  at  the  Old  Folks'  Concert 
and  he  had  carried  her  from  the  hall,  he  had  kept 
up  a  kindly,  persistent  interest  in  her,  and  when  he 
learned  what  her  ambitions  were,  he  had  loaned  her 
books  and  talked  to  her  about  the  world. 

To-night,  when  she  came  galloping  up  the  driveway 
with  the  rhythm  of  horse's  hoofs,  he  knew  who  it  was, 
and  pulled  down  his  feet  and  smiled.  Thyrza,  when 
she  became  aware  that  some  one  was  on  the  veranda, 
bade  the  horse  "whoa!"  in  a  whisper, and  walked  up 
the  steps  demurely.  She  was  often  shy  with  him,  and 
always  a  little  removed.  He  had  a  serious  dignity, 
though  he  joked  a  good  deal,  and  she  was  dimly 
aware  that  this  was  because  she  was  a  little  girl  and 
he  wished  to  be  polite  to  her.  He  could  not  treat  her 
quite  like  a  grown-up  lady.  He  had  to  make  a  special 
manner  for  her.  Barton  Gorse  always  knew  what 
people  were  thinking.  So  it  was  no  wonder  he  guessed 
at  this  instant  that  Thyrza  was  not  only  Thyrza  but 
a  horse. 

"Shall  I  help  you  out  of  the  carriage?"  said  he. 

Thyrza  was  delighted  all  over.  It  seemed  to  put 
them  in  the  same  world,  and  this  was  charming ;  for 
into  her  foolish  country  she  had  found  no  one  as  yet 
to  go. 

"  I  'm  out,"  she  said  joyously.  "  Here,  I  've  brought 
your  book.  Thank  you  ever  so  much."  A  thought 
of  great-aunt  Mary  at  home  encased  in  the  pro- 

67 


THE   STORY   OF  THYRZA 

prieties,  and  knowing  indubitably  in  every  event 
what  a  little  girl  should  say,  prompted  the  tardy 
gratitude. 

"Want  another?"  He  had  risen,  and  she  knew 
just  how  he  looked  though  she  could  scarcely  see  him 
through  the  dusk :  thin,  with  the  aquiline  nose  and 
beautiful  blue  eyes  that  seemed  so  at  variance  with 
the  fine  straight  black  hair  above.  Everybody  liked 
Barton  Gorse,  except  those  very  near  him  who  were 
exasperated  with  him  for  being  lazy  ;  and  even  they, 
when  they  saw  him  smile,  had  to  own  they  loved  him. 
It  was  a  melancholy  face  in  rest,  but  when  the  thin, 
big  mouth  parted  over  his  white  teeth,  his  cheeks 
wrinkled  up  into  the  most  infectious  mirth,  the  recog 
nition  of  one  who  sees  that  although  life  may  be  un 
expected  and  unpleasant,  yet  it  is  very  amusing  indeed. 
Thyrza  did  want  a  book,  but  she  could  not  talk  about 
it  at  once.  She  took  the  little  rocking-chair  that  was 
always  on  the  veranda  now,  beside  Barton's  big  one. 
He  had  not  told  her  that  he  kept  it  for  her,  but  it 
seemed  to  be  her  chair. 

"  She 's  come,"  said  Thyrza.  There  were  pounds  of 
emphasis  in  the  words. 

Barton  seated  himself. 

"Aunt  Sarah?"  he  prompted  her. 

"  Great-aunt  Mary." 

"How  soon  is  she  going  to  take  you  away  ?  " 

"  That 's  it,"  said  Thyrza,  in  a  whisper.  "  Oh,  I 
couldn't  bear  it!" 

"Well,  you  want  to  go." 

68 


THE   GOLDEN  APPLE 


"  I  've  got  to  go,"  said  Thyrza  fiercely.  "  Should 
you  think  she  'd  want  me  till  fall  ?  " 

"It's  like  the  story  of  the  Golden  Apples,  isn't 
it  ?  "  said  Barton  Gorse,  temporizing.  He  was  aware 
of  the  warring  desires  in  the  little  ambitious  heart. 

"  But  that  was  the  prettiest  one/'  said  Thyrza. 
"  Laura 's  better  looking  than  me,  and  nicer.  Only 
she  doesn't  want  to  go." 

"  Still,  I  think  it 's  a  good  deal  like  the  Golden 
Apples.  Listen  !  what  do  you  hear  ?  " 

There  was  a  thin  little  sighing  cry  from  the  kitchen. 
Then  the  lament  broke  into  baby  barks.  Thyrza  for 
got  aunt  Mary  and  the  piano.  She  sprang  to  her 
feet. 

"  It's  a  dog  ! "  she  cried  loudly.   " It's  a  puppy !  " 

"  Wait  a  minute.  We'll  see." 

He  went  round  to  the  kitchen  door  and  held  a 
colloquy  with  Katie.  Presently  he  returned  with 
something  in  his  hands.  It  sniveled  and  squirmed 
in  a  fat  way,  and  made  little  ineffectual  attempts 
to  love  all  the  world  and  destroy  it  at  once.  This 
blubbering  atom  of  life  was  deposited  in  Thyrza's 
lap,  and  she  got  her  hands  on  it. 

"  Oh,  my  !  "  she  kept  saying.  "  It  is  a  puppy.  Mr. 
Gorse,  it 's  a  darling  puppy." 

Barton  Gorse  knew  exactly  how  she  felt.  He  had 
the  same  sensations  over  young  and  wriggling 
things. 

"  He  '11  yelp  his  head  off,  I  'm  afraid,"  said  he. 
"  I  've  got  to  go  up  to  town  for  a  week,  and  Katie 

69 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

can't  mother  him  as  much  as  he  expects.  You  don't 
want  to  keep  him  for  me,  do  you?  " 

Thyrza  clutched  the  little  soft  body  to  her  breast. 

"  Oh !  "  she  breathed,  "  could  I  ?  " 

"  I  'd  be  ever  so  much  obliged.  Katie  'd  be  nice  to 
him,  but  she  hasn't  much  time  to  hold  his  hand. 
Want  him  to-night?" 

"  I  guess  I  '11  be  going,"  said  Thyrza,  rising,  her 
legacy  clasped  immutably. 

"  Wait  a  minute.  I  '11  walk  home  with  you." 

66 1  guess  I  '11  be  going,"  cried  Thyrza.  She  was 
half-way  down  the  drive.  Her  clear  young  voice 
throbbed  with  pleasure,  and  he  smiled  to  hear  it. 
"  Thank  you  ever  so  much." 

Barton  Gorse  kept  on  smiling  to  himself.  "Poor 
little  kid  !  "  he  said  aloud.  Somehow  he  had  a  fore 
boding  that  the  academic  sojourn  with  aunt  Mary 
was  not  going  to  be  altogether  fortunate,  and  he  had 
hit  on  something  to  give  the  child  a  little  foolish 
pleasure  before  she  should  go. 

Thyrza,  scudding  through  the  night,  had  a  certi 
tude  of  richness  such  as  she  had  never  known.  Of 
course  she  preferred  books  to  anything  else,  but  now 
she  had  not  a  book  but  a  dog,  and  her  feelings  ran 
away  with  her.  She  clutched  the  little  body  with  firm 
yet  passionate  hands,  and  held  her  cheek  close  to  the 
baby  head  and  its  silky  ears.  It  was  a  spaniel,  and 
she  remembered  she  did  not  even  know  its  name.  "  I 
shall  call  you  for  him,"  she  whispered.  "Barton! 
Barton!  Darling!" 

70 


THE  GOLDEN  APPLE 


Mrs.  Tennant  and  aunt  Mary  were  sitting  in  the 
dark,  and  Laura  had  gone  up  to  bed.  Laura  had 
pronounced  ideas  in  some  directions,  and  she  could 
not  sit  in  the  room  while  aunt  Mary  told  the  time- 
worn  story  of  uncle  Chad's  illness  without  feeling 
sleepy.  Once  upstairs  she  crept  up  on  her  mother's 
bed,  and  lay  there  without  undressing.  She  knew  she 
should  not  goto  sleep,  and  it  seemed  to  her  she  needed 
just  this  time  to  think  about  changing  the  walls  of 
her  play-house.  But  in  five  minutes  she  was  off. 

Thyrza  came  into  the  sitting-room  with  a  rush. 
Not  even  aunt  Mary  could  stay  the  torrent  of  her  joy. 

"  0  mother,"  she  cried,  in  the  shrillness  of  de 
light,  "  what  you  s'pose  I  've  got  ?  " 

She  deposited  the  little  guest  in  her  mother's  lap. 
He  was  sleepy  by  this  time,  but  he  had  the  instinct 
ive  good  manners  to  put  out  his  ready  tongue  and  lick 
Mrs.  Tennant' s  hand.  She  was  very  tired.  A  day  with 
aunt  Mary  represented  the  top  notch  of  emotion.  It 
was  warfare  of  a  sort, —  retreat,  advance,  a  volley 
when  you  least  expected.  To-night  there  was  another 
reason  why  she  should  be,  as  she  said,  as  nervous  as 
a  witch.  There  was  work  to  be  finished,  and  if  she 
could  have  had  her  sewing  to  decline  upon,  she  might 
have  pricked  momentary  emotion  into  hem  and  seam. 
But  aunt  Mary  had  decreed  that  it  was  terrible  fool 
ish  to  use  up  oil  in  summer-time,  and  Mrs.  Tennant 
sat  with  folded  hands,  and  these  idle  fingers  the  red 
tongue  found. 

"  For  heaven's  sake ! "  cried  Mrs.  Tennant.  She 

71 


THE   STORY  OF   THYRZA 

pushed  back  her  chair,  and  came  to  her  feet.  "  Thyrza 
Tennant,  what  under  the  sun  you  got?" 

Thyrza  had  rescued  her  charge.  She  tucked  him 
under  her  chin  for  safe  keeping,  and  held  him  in  a 
tender  grasp. 

"  Why,  mother,"  said  she,  all  a  bubbling  happiness, 
"  it 's  only  a  puppy." 

"Only  a  puppy!"  echoed  aunt  Mary.  "Thyrza, 
you  put  him  right  outdoors,  where  he  belongs.  No 
wonder  your  mother's  scairt,  briugin'  strange  dogs 
in  here  as  you  do." 

Thyrza  laughed,  a  happy  little  giggle.  It  seemed 
possible  to  think  anything  was  funny  if  you  had  a 
puppy  under  your  chin.  Aunt  Mary  rose  and  opened 
the  screen  door. 

"Here,"  said  she,  "you  put  him  out,  an'  tell  him 
to  go  home  where  he  belongs.  Come !  I  can't  hold 
this  door  open.  I  hear  a  skeeter  now." 

Thyrza  saw  herself  brought  straight  up  to  the  wall 
of  sacrifice,  and  sacrifice  was  what  she  adored ;  only 
she  had  always  assumed  that  she  should  not  be  called 
on  to  relinquish  anything  like  a  puppy,  a  little  warm 
soft  thing  you  could  hold  under  your  chin,  and  that 
would  cry  all  night  if  you  put  him  out  alone.  She  took 
a  step  toward  her  mother. 

"  Mother  !  "  she  called.  "  Mother !  " 

Mrs.  Tennant  sounded  very  uncertain. 

"  There,  Thyrza,  I  guess  you  better  do  as  your 
aunt  Mary  says.  We  can't  have  strange  dogs  in  here 
by  night." 

72 


THE   GOLDEN  APPLE 


"  Mother,  lie  ain't  a  strange  dog.  He 's  only  a 
puppy." 

"  Well !  "  said  Mrs.  Tennant.  Then  she  waited,  not 
knowing  what  else  to  do,  and  Thyrza  let  loose  the 
torrent  of  her  defense. 

"  He  's  Barton  Gorse's  puppy,  and  Barton  Gorse  is 
going  to  be  away  a  whole  week,  and  the  puppy  '11  cry 
all  the  time,  and  Katie  'd  be  good  to  him,  but  that 's  all." 

Mrs.  Tennant  recognized  a  certain  indomitable  note 
in  her  child's  voice.  She  had  heard  it  there  before, 
and  had  neither  feared  it  nor  really  yielded,  though 
she  had  been  obliged  to  consider  it  in  a  respectful 
wonder.  But  this  was  not  the  time  for  controversy, 
with  aunt  Mary  as  voluntary  umpire.  She  rose  and 
opened  the  door  into  the  shed. 

"I  guess  we  may's  well  leave  him  in  here,  long's 
it's  night,"  she  said  weakly  to  aunt  Mary  over  her 
shoulder.  "  Barton  Gorse  is  a  real  nice  young  man  an* 
he  ain't  very  well." 

So  Thyrza  and  the  puppy  passed  out  into  the  shed, 
and  the  door  was  shut  upon  them.  The  screen  door 
banged  violently,  and  aunt  Mary  paused  a  moment 
in  the  kitchen  before  ascending  to  her  room. 

"You  needn't  light  me  a  lamp,"  said  she.  "I'd 
ruther  by  far  have  a  candle  in  summer-time.  Never  in 
my  life  did  I  see  such  carryin's  on."  Then  she,  too, 
was  gone. 

Mrs.  Tennant  paused  for  a  moment  to  reflect  on  the 
singular  dispersal  of  her  household  when  aunt  Mary 
camped  within  it.  Laura  was  in  retreat  upstairs, 

73 


THE   STORY   or   THYRZA 

Thyrza  languished  in  exile,  and  aunt  Ellie,  who  had 
"  been  plummin'  "  vigorously  all  day,  had  crept  home 
to  steal  a  bite  from  the  dairy-shelf  and  slip  into  her 
bedroom,  where  she  stayed  as  still  as  a  wild  creature 
in  its  burrow.  There  was  no  singing  of  "  Mary  across 
the  wild  moor  "  until  aunt  Mary's  shadow  was  lifted 
from  the  sill. 

Mrs.  Tennant  waited  until  the  heavy  tread  above 
had,  after  some  disquieting  renewals,  plainly  ceased. 
Then  she  went  to  the  shed  door  to  whisper,  "You 
there?" 

Thyrza  was  perched  on  the  old  chopping-block.  Its 
irregularities  were  distressing,  and  only  the  tips  of 
her  toes  reached  the  floor ;  but  she  nursed  the  puppy 
and  forgot  her  banishment.  At  her  mother's  voice  she 
rose  and  slipped  into  the  kitchen.  Mrs.  Tennant  re 
garded  the  little  beast,  lying  now  in  an  impotence  of 
sleep. 

"  Well !  "  she  commented,  "  he 's  a  kind  of  a  cunnin' 
little  creatur'.  Black  as  a  crow  !  " 

Thyrza  had  deposited  him  on  the  calico-covered 
lounge,  and  now,  being  more  familiar  with  the  ways 
of  cats  than  of  dogs,  she  tried  to  round  him  into  a  ball 
because  it  seemed  to  her  it  would  be  more  luxurious 
to  him. 

"  See,  mother,"  she  said  movingly,  "  ain't  he  the 
prettiest  ?  " 

But  Mrs.  Tennant  had  had  her  moment  of  approval. 

"  I  guess  we  better  take  him  out  into  the  barn/' 
she  considered  ;  but  Thyrza  dashed  at  her. 

74 


THE   GOLDEN  APPLE 


"  0  mother,  you  would  n't  do  a  thing  like  that ! 
I  thought  you  liked  dogs." 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Tennant,  "  I  like  'em  well 
enough  in  their  place." 

"  Besides  he  'd  cry  all  night.  She  'd  hear  him,"  of 
fered  Thyrza,  with  a  subtlety  of  impulse. 

That  was  true,  Mrs.  Tennant  could  well  believe. 

"  Well,  what  you  goin'  to  do  ?  "  she  inquired. 

Thyrza  gathered  him,  with  a  swift  motion,  into  her 
arms. 

"  He  can  sleep  on  the  foot  of  my  bed,"  she  de 
clared,  on  her  way  to  the  staircase.  "  I  '11  give  him 
the  old  brown  shawl." 

She  was  gone  before  her  mother  could  say  her  nay. 
Mrs.  Tennant  locked  the  doors  and  she  also  went  up 
stairs.  She  did  not  go  into  the  children's  room.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  it  was  better  not  to  know.  So  she 
deftly  peeled  off  Laura's  clothing  and  rolled  her  into 
bed,  and  then,  with  a  sigh  of  physical  tiredness,  dropped 
down  beside  her.  She  felt  like  saying  her  prayers  that 
night,  and  leaving  Thyrza  and  the  puppy  to  God, 
Whom  she  would  also  have  asked  to  protect  them  all 
from  aunt  Mary.  But  to  her  God  was  the  God  of 
Eternal  Sabbaths  and  unreasonable  though  doubt 
less  praiseworthy  wrath,  and  she  could  not  trouble 
Him. 

The  nextmorning,  when  the  others  met  at  the  break 
fast-table,  Thyrza  was  in  the  barn,  ecstatically  feeding 
the  puppy  from  her  own  glass  of  milk. 

"  Where  's  that  dog  ?  "  inquired  aunt  Mary. 

75 


THE   STORY  OF   THYRZA 

"  I  guess  Thyrza 's  put  him  out  some'er's/'  returned 
Mrs.  Tennant  guiltily. 

"  Where  's  Thyrza?" 

"Laura,"  said  Mrs.  Tennant,  shifting  the  responsi 
bility,  "  where  's  your  sister  ?  " 

Laura  looked  at  her  mother  and  then  at  aunt  Mary. 
She  had  probably  never  told  a  lie  in  her  life,  but  now 
she  said  calmly,  not  knowing  why  she  said  it,  "  Thyrza  's 
gone  over  to  Mis'  McAdam's  to  borrow  the  Sunday- 
school  question-book." 

Mrs.  Tennant  narrowed  her  gaze  and  looked  at  her 
piercingly.  She  opened  her  mouth  and  closed  it.  Then 
she  poured  the  coffee.  Aunt  Mary,  being  occupied  in 
receiving  her  cup,  strangely  did  not  pursue  the  ques 
tion  further. 

The  next  three  days  were  periods  of  warfare  and 
evasion.  Thyrza  and  Laura  took  turns  in  amusing 
their  little  guest,  secreted  in  the  barn  and  taken  for 
short  walks  after  dusk.  It  was  ticklish  business, 
though  there  grew  to  be  the  wildest  pleasure  in  it, 
and  by  reason  of  the  strain,  they  had  the  seeming  of 
two  very  gentle  and  serious  little  girls.  This  was  when 
they  were  in  the  house,  always  with  their  ears  pricked 
to  catch  the  sound  of  a  betraying  yelp.  At  the  end 
of  the  third  day,  aunt  Mary  called  them  before  her. 
She  wore  the  guise  of  an  excellent  humor. 

"  Now,"  said  she,  "  who  's  goin'  home  to  live  with 
me?" 

Laura  looked  stolidly  past  her.  The  quest  was  not 
for  her.  Thyrza  trembled.  She  forced  herself  to  meet 

76 


THE  GOLDEN  APPLE 


aunt  Mary's  eye,  but  her  throat  felt  parched,  and 
she  could  only  begin  miserably,  — 

"If  you'd  take  me,  aunt  Mary — " 

There  she  stayed,  and  aunt  Mary  seemed  in  a  way 
to  be  mollified  by  her  confusion.  It  was  fitting  on  an 
occasion  of  such  grandeur. 

"Well,"  she  returned  graciously,  "I  guess  you're 
the  one  that  wants  it.  So  if  you  've  took  it  upon  your 
self  to  try  —  What  under  the  heaven's  that?" 

It  was  the  sound  of  a  rush  and  scurry  down  the 
stairs  and  the  advent  of  a  little  black  demon  of  a 
puppy.  He  bore  aunt  Mary's  bonnet  in  his  mouth  and 
tripped  in  it  outrageously.  Some  remaining  shreds 
of  the  veil  were  clinging  to  his  ears.  Thyrza,  at  a 
glance,  knew  that  he  was  a  wrecker  of  fortunes  as  well 
as  bonnets,  but  she  opened  her  mouth  wide  and  broke 
into  ecstatic  laughter.  Laura,  on  whom  the  irony  of 
the  event  had  not  yet  fallen,  sprang  on  him  and 
snatched  the  bonnet.  She  had  it,  all  but  one  string, 
and  that  he  held  in  his  determined  teeth,  worrying 
it,  bracing  his  feet  and  pulling  back  with  all  the  force 
of  evil,  growling  meantime  satanically.  But  somehow 
Laura  got  the  string,  and  immediately  aunt  Mary  was 
holding  a  distorted  thing  in  her  hand,  repeating  trag 
ically,  — 

"That's  my  bunnit.  That's  my  bunnit  an'  my 
veil." 

The  puppy,  in  a  sportive  oblivion  to  the  disaster 
he  had  wrought,  dived  under  her  dress,  seeking  out  her 
ankles,  and  again  Laura  fell  upon  him.  She  dragged 

77 


THE    STORY   OF   THYRZA 

him  forth,  thrust  him  outside  the  screen  door,  and  by 
a  happy  inspiration,  threw  her  slipper  after  him.  If 
he  had  something  to  worry,  Laura  knew,  he  would 
keep  himself  busy.  She  returned  breathless  to  a  tri 
umph  she  had  not  foreseen. 

"You  come  here,"  said  aunt  Mary.  She  laid  a 
heavy  hand  upon  her  shoulder.  "  You're  a  good  little 
girl.  You're  the  one  for  me." 

Mrs.  Tennant,  not  yet  included  in  the  fateful  mo 
ment,  was  coming  calmly  in. 

"Clary,"  aunt  Mary  cried,  "I've  made  my  choice. 
It's  this  one."  She  gave  Laura  a  little  confirmatory 
shake,  and  Laura,  without  a  word,  stampeded  out  of  the 
house.  Thyrza  ran  after  her,  and  overtook  her  in  the 
orchard.  Thyrza  had  scooped  up  the  puppy  on  the  way, 
and  he  had  retained  his  solacing  shoe.  Now  Laura 
snatched  it  from  him  and  put  it  on  her  foot.  She  was 
white  with  anger. 

"Why,"  she  said,  "I  wouldn't  no  more  go  an' 
live  with  her  —  " 

Thyrza,  too,  was  white  with  the  agony  of  loss. 
Arabella's  piano  stood  before  her  eyes.  She  could 
almost  hear  it  playing  sad  tunes  of  renunciation  and 
farewell. 

"Laura  Tennant,"  said  she,  "you've  got  to." 

Laura,  her  foot  in  air,  and  the  slipper  half -buttoned, 
looked  up  at  her,  wild-eyed. 

"  I  'd  like  to  know  why  I ' ve  got  to  ?  "  she  inquired, 
with  a  faithful  reproduction  of  her  mother's  direct 
ness. 

78 


THE   GOLDEN   APPLE 


Thyrza  stood  before  her,  hands  clasped  in  the  in 
tensity  of  her  appeal. 

"Don't  you  see,"  she  cried  vehemently,  "if  I  can't 
go,  you've  got  to?  You've  got  to  learn  everything 
at  the  academy  and  tell  me.  You've  got  to  play  on 
Arabella's  piano,  and  maybe  you  can  come  home 
sometimes,  and  you  can  show  me,  on  the  bureau  or 
something,  and  then  when  I  have  a  piano,  it  won't 
be  too  late.  0  Laura,  you've  got  to  go!" 

When  Thyrza  said,  "you've  got  to,"  Laura  never 
lingered.  She  gave  her  now  one  long,  miserable 
look,  and  then  unbuttoned  her  slipper,  as  if  for  occu 
pation,  and  fell  to  buttoning  it  again.  To  Thyrza  the 
look  was  not  very  different  from  others  when  Laura 
had  yielded  against  her  will.  She  had  had  experience 
of  that  round  face  drained  of  its  color,  those  despair 
ing  eyes ;  but  this  time  she  could  not  ignore  it.  The 
face  stayed  with  her  afterwards ;  it  was  to  be  with 
her  always. 

Laura  finished  fumbling  with  her  shoes.  She  got 
up  and  said  briefly,  — 

"  Come,  le  's  go  in." 

Somehow  Thyrza  did  not  dare  speak  to  her  again 
about  what  was  to  be,  and  no  one  said  very  much 
until  bed-time.  Then  aunt  Mary,  on  her  way  up 
stairs,  candle  in  hand,  paused  at  the  door. 

"  I  shall  be  goin'  by  day  arter  to-morrer,"  she  an 
nounced.  "  Clary,  you  have  Laura  ready  to  go  with 


me." 


After  she  had  made  her  exit,  the  three  sat  there  in 

79 


THE   STORY  OF   THYRZA 

a  dry-eyed  misery.  Laura  knew  nothing  could  save 
her,  and  she  did  not  ask  to  be  saved.  Thyrza  knew 
it,  too.  Somebody  must  go  out  to  bottle  the  spring  of 
knowledge  and  bring  it  home.  If  she  herself  could  not 
ride  on  the  quest,  it  must  be  Laura.  The  mother  had 
thoughts  they  could  not  share,  and  never  guessed  at 
all  until  they  were  grown  up  and  these  agonies  were 
but  the  hardships  of  a  remembered  past.  Aunt  Mary 
had  money.  Mrs.  Tennant  did  not  want  it  for  herself; 
her  own  simple  life,  all  scantily  paid  work  and  no  cer 
tainties,  sufficed  her.  But  she  had  at  her  heart  the  one 
golden  hope  of  aunt  Mary's  remembering  the  chil 
dren  in  her  will.  If  aunt  Mary  were  offended,  that 
could  not  be.  So  she,  too,  dedicated  little  silent  Laura 
to  be  the  sacrifice. 

The  first  cricket  of  the  year  was  chirping  that  night. 
It  seemed  to  Thyrza  the  saddest  sound  she  had  ever 
heard.  The  puppy  had  been  shut  ruthlessly  in  the 
barn,  and  when  he  yelped  no  one  offered  to  go  to  him. 
Once  Mrs.  Tennant  glanced  inquiringly  at  Thyrza, 
and  Thyrza  answered  from  her  misery, — 

"Let  him  cry." 

Then  suddenly  Laura  rose  and,  keeping  her  face 
away  from  them,  went  upstairs.  They  followed  pre 
sently,  and  found  her  undressing  mechanically  in  the 
room  that  had  been  hers  and  Thyrza's  ever  since  they 
could  remember.  Mrs.  Tennant  paused  at  the  door  a 
moment. 

"You  better  shut  that  west  winder,"  she  advised 
dryly,  "  not  have  the  breeze  on  you  all  night ; "  and 

80 


THE   GOLDEN  APPLE 


when  they  were  ready  for  bed,  she  appeared  again,  in 
her  nightgown.  She  looked  old  and  worn.  The  last 
half-hour  seemed  to  have  done  something  to  her.  She 
looked  past  Thyrza,  miserably  weeping  into  her  bureau 
drawer,  which  for  some  reason  she  elected  to  put  in 
order  at  that  time,  and  her  gaze  rested  upon  Laura 
with  yearning  and  invitation. 

"Don't  you  want  to  come  into  mother's  room?" 
she  asked,  and  Laura,  saying  nothing,  went. 

For  those  two  nights  she  slept  in  her  mother's  arms, 
and  Thyrza  was  by  herself.  There  were  two  silent 
days,  as  arid  as  the  intervals  of  drought  in  a  thirsty 
land.  And  on  the  third  day  at  dusk  Thyrza  stood  by 
the  gate  alone  and  looked  down  the  road.  That  was 
the  way  Laura  had  gone,  a  firm  figure,  but  a  very  little 
one  beside  aunt  Mary's  bulk, in  the  "accommodation  " 
ordered  to  take  them  to  the  train.  There  at  the  gate 
Barton  Gorse  found  her.  He  came  striding  along  the 
road,  very  gayly,  whistling  a  march.  He  had  come 
home  two  days  earlier  to  see  her,  fearing  lest  she 
should  be  gone.  He  walked  up  to  her,  confidently 
smiling.  When  he  saw  her  face,  his  own  grew  grave. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked.  Thyrza  was  looking  at 
him  in  the  frankest  misery.  "  What  is  it  ?"  he  repeated. 

"Laura's  gone." 

"Gone  where?" 

"With  great-aunt  Mary." 

He  pursed  his  lips  a  moment.  Then  his  face  grew 
tender. 

"  Was  it  the  Golden  Apple,  then?"  he  asked. 

81 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

She  nodded. 

"  Aunt  Mary  chose  her  ?  " 

She  nodded  again.  Barton  Gorse  stood  there  a  long 
time,  looking  at  her.  His  own  life,  in  its  future  possi 
bilities,  passed  before  him,  as  her  life  was  rushing 
before  her.  He  was  wondering  how  much  he  could 
pledge. 

"  Thyrza,"  he  said. 

She  looked  up  quickly,  his  voice  was  so  gentle,  so 
kind,  as  he  had  fitted  it  to  her  need.  He  spoke  very 
quickly,  as  if  he  might  be  betraying  more  of  his  inti 
mate  self  than  he  had  meant  to. 

"  Thyrza,  I  'm  not  good  for  much  in  some  ways. 
I  'm  not  very  fit.  0  Lord,  I  can't  talk  about  it !  but 
you  won't  tell.  I  can't  bang  about  like  other  fellows. 
I  've  got  to  be  studious,  all  that,  you  know."  She 
was  looking  at  him  with  clear,  sorrowful  eyes,  wonder 
ing  what  was  coming,  because  he  seemed  to  be  for 
getting  her  grief  and  craving  sympathy  for  himself. 
Yet  it  was  not  sympathy,  she  knew  at  once.  "  I  can 
live  where  I  like,"  he  said  awkwardly.  "  I  shall  be 
here  a  lot.  I  will  be  here,  I  promise  you.  I  '11  be  your 
tutor.  You  won't  have  to  go  to  aunt  Mary's,  even  for 
a  piano." 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  in  the  incredu 
lous  joy  of  such  a  promise.  Then  her  sorrow  over 
whelmed  her,  and  she  leaned  forward  on  the  fence 
and  sobbed,  — 

"  It  is  n't  that.  It  is  n't  pianos,  nor  learning,  nor  the 
academy.  It 's  Laura  —  Laura  —  Laura !  " 


IV 

THE  KNIGHT  OF  ELD 


J_T  was  when  Thyrza  was  only  a  little  over  fifteen 
that  Barton  Gorse's  uncle,  Terry  Updike,  came  home 
from  Europe  with  an  impelling  desire  of  finding  out 
what  his  nephew  was  like,  and  why  he  had  not  only 
failed  to  establish  himself  in  some  profession  at  home, 
but  had  not  even  gone  over  to  do  indefinite  things 
abroad.  Terry  Updike  was  a  writer  of  books,  the 
brother  of  Barton's  mother,  and  he  had  for  years 
elected  to  live  in  England.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
there  was  something  difficult  to  be  understood  in  the 
way  Barton  had  settled  down  at  Leafy  Road  after  his 
grandfather's  death.  The  boy  had  an  older  sister  in, 
America,  and  he  must  also  have  ambitions,  hot  blood 
to  be  cooled,  even  intemperances  to  be  outworked.  It 
was  not  like  youth  in  a  strenuous  time  to  take  on 
the  habits  of  middle  age,  and  settle  beside  stagnant 
waters.  So,  with  an  irritated  sense  of  doing  a  foolish 
thing,  he  broke  the  established  habit  of  his  life  —  a 
winter's  work  in  Devon,  the  London  season,  and 
summer  on  the  Continent  —  and  set  sail  for  America. 
Barton,  when  he  found  he  was  coming,  had  proposed 
a  dutiful  meeting  in  New  York  as  soon  as  he  should 
land ;  but  that  his  uncle  definitely  refused.  He 
wanted,  though  this  he  did  not  say,  to  come  down  to 

83 


THE  STORY  OF   THYRZA 

Leafy  Road  and  see  for  himself  the  environment  that 
had  either  relaxed  the  lad  or  enchanted  him. 

Thyrza  was  taking  lessons  of  Barton  every  day 
now.  They  were  reading  Virgil,  and  she  felt  very 
learned.  One  afternoon  she  looked  up  from  her  sight 
reading  with  a  flushed  face,  beseeching  in  every  line 
to  be  commended.  She  was  a  glutton  for  praise;  she 
never  got  enough,  and  however  fat  with  it  she  was,  a 
word  of  reproof  reduced  her  to  penury.  Barton  sat 
leaning  back  in  his  chair,  tapping  his  lips  with  a  pen 
cil  and  smiling.  He  was  thinking  what  a  queer  little 
girl  she  was,  how  fierce  in  her  devotions,  how  self- 
centred  and  bent  upon  certain  rewards  that,  from  his 
circumscribed  area  of  outlook,  he  thought  were  more 
valuable  to  men  than  to  women.  Barton  had  not 
known  many  differing  types  of  people,  and  it  some 
times  seemed  to  him  that  Thyrza  was  the  very  queer 
est  child  he  had  ever  met,  and  the  least  fitted  to  be 
a  woman.  She  was  so  bent  upon  distinction,  upon 
things  that,  he  believed,  belonged  to  what  they  called 
the  intellectual  life,  and  so  burningly  anxious  to  be 
cognizant  of  emotions  with  large  names.  Yet  after  all 
she  was  only  a  thin  child  with  big  eyes  and  freckles 
on  her  nose,  dressed,  most  of  the  time,  in  a  brown 
calico  pathetically  serviceable.  To-day  he  had  some 
thing  to  break  to  her.  They  sat  in  the  faded,  sombre 
room  known  as  the  library  at  the  Gorse  house,  though 
there  were  but  few  books,  because  Judge  Gorse  had 
kept  his  law  library  in  the  little  office  out  in  the 
grounds.  But  the  books  here  were  in  old  leather 

84 


THE   KNIGHT  OF  ELD 


bindings  that  gave  forth  a  pungent  smell.  The  chairs 
were  covered  in  worn  leather  with  brass  tacks,  and 
everything  looked  dignified  and  old.  The  room  was 
always  in  order  and  always  clean,  but  it  affected 
sharp  young  senses,  fresh  from  outdoor  challenges, 
with  a  deadening  as  of  things  left  a  long  time  to 
grow  musty  and  decay. 

Thyrza  looked  up  suddenly  from  her  book  and 
Barton  noted  how  bright  her  eyes  were,  like  those 
of  some  inquisitive  young  animal. 

"  This  room  smells  like  poison,"  said  she. 

Barton  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  Heavens  !  Do  you  mean  the  air  's  bad  ?  "  Then, 
as  the  door  and  all  the  windows  were  open,  and  he 
could  do  nothing,  he  sat  down  again. 

Thyrza  was  shocked  at  her  implication. 

"  Oh,  no,  sir,"  she  hastened  to  say.  "  I  guess  what 
I  mean  is  it  smells  like  an  old  book  we  Ve  got.  It 's 
about  poisoners.  It 's  an  awful  old  book  —  a  very  old 
book  —  and  this  air  's  just  like  it.  I  guess  it 's  only 
the  smell  of  leather." 

"  Well,  you  need  n't  scare  a  chap  to  death,  with 
your  poisons." 

Thyrza  sat  contentedly  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
time-softened  backs  of  Michelet's  France,  in  a  kind  of 
worshipful  muse.  It  seemed  as  if  there  were  nothing 
on  earth  so  wonderful  as  to  live  in  a  quiet  room  and 
read  from  one  book  and  look  up  to  see  another  wait 
ing  for  her. 

"Only  to  think,"  she  said  wonderingly,  " there's 

85 


THE   STORY  OF   THYRZA 

just  that  one  book  at  home,  —  except  the  Bible, 
—  and  here  there's  more  than  I  could  read  in  a 
month." 

"Help  yourself,  Dryasdust,"  said  Barton  reck 
lessly.  "  Drink  deep.  If  any  young  woman  can  drown 
dull  care  in  Gibbonses  without  regard  to  ribbonses 
(I  thought  of  that  this  minute,  talking  right  along 
just  as  I  am  now!  ain't  I  smart !),  why,  I'm  not  the 
man  to  curb  her.  Well!"  He  settled  himself  again, 
and  began  beating  an  accompaniment  to  his  words 
with  the  pencil  on  his  palm.  He  was  often  shy  before 
Thyrza's  intellectual  curiosities.  The  pencil  was  a 
pedagogical  symbol  that  kept  him  in  heart.  "  We  can't 
have  more  than  an  hour  a  day  for  a  while,"  he  an 
nounced.  "  My  uncle 's  coming." 

Thyrza  looked  at  him  and  blanched.  In  her 
strangely  alternated  nature  she  had  as  wild  a  belief 
in  ill  fortune  as  in  good.  Her  fears  served  to  balance 
her  outrageous  hopes.  "It's  all  over,"  her  heart  said, 
while  she  continued  to  look  at  him  respectfully.  "  The 
Virgil  will  stop,  the  French  will  never  be  begun,  and 
I  shan't  be  educated." 

Barton  was  continuing,  — 

"My  uncle  Terry  is  on  his  way  here  from  England. 
He 's  going  to  visit  me.  So  till  I  see  what  his  habits 
are  and  how  much  he  wants  of  me,  we'd  better  cut 
down  our  time  a  little." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Thyrza.  Then  she  added  with 
timidity,  for  she  sometimes  had  an  impression  that 
Barton  smiled  at  her  when  she  offered  unsolicited 

86 


THE   KNIGHT  OF  ELD 


opinions  on  matters  connected  with  the  intellectual 
life,  "  He  writes  beautiful  books." 

Barton  smiled  this  time,  only  rather  absently. 
Thyrza  responded  with  an  inward  shiver.  Something 
within  her,  as  raw  as  vanity,  forbade  her  to  seem  to 
make  a  mistake,  which,  in  the  intellectual  life,  she 
felt,  would  be  irreparable.  That  life  was  a  winged 
flight  from  mountain  top  to  top.  One  must  never  lose 
pinions  and  fall  fluttering,  broken-winged,  into  the 
valley. 

"  He 's  written  an  awful  lot,"  said  Barton,  with  a 
species  of  indulgence  toward  an  uncle  who  served 
strange  gods.  "  I  don't  see  what  he  wants  in  America. 
Well,  anyhow  he  's  coming,  and  we  '11  cut  down  our 
time  till  we  see  what  the  old  chap  likes." 

Thyrza,  speeding  home  that  afternoon  along  the 
road,  foot  deep  now  in  yellow  and  red  leaves,  felt 
passionately  sad  and  yet  extremely  happy  at  recogniz 
ing  her  feeling.  The  day  was  all  soft  reminders  and 
sweet  consolations,  a  touch  in  it  of  hottest  summer, 
and  yet  tempered  with  the  benignity  of  the  end.  All 
the  mists  of  the  world,  she  thought,  had  flown  to 
gether  into  one  purple  bloom  that  veiled  the  hills  and 
made  the  farther  woods  enchanted  barriers.  And 
nearer  there  was,  in  homely  imitation,  the  curling 
upward  of  smoke  from  the  neighborhood  chimneys, 
where  a  score  of  houses  made  ready  for  tea.  It  was  a 
wonderfully  beautiful  autumn,  and  Thyrza  was  trem 
blingly  happy  in  it,  with  an  undercurrent  of  lonesome- 
ness  and  pain. 

87 


THE   STORY  OF  THYRZA 

Laura  had  really  gone.  She  was  with  great-aunt 
Mary,  beginning  at  the  academy  and  learning  to  play 
on  Arabella's  piano,  and  very  homesick,  Thyrza 
thought  it  probable,  very  despondent  over  the  value 
of  what  she  was  learning  at  such  pains,  yet  treading 
her  appointed  path  with  dutiful  little  feet,  as  Laura 
would.  Thyrza  missed  her  in  a  sickening  way  that  she 
defined  to  herself,  having  no  other  measure  of  com 
parison,  as  "  like  death."  There  was  a  lump  in  her 
throat  and  the  whole  earth  looked  to  her  like  a  dwell 
ing-place  for  homesickness  and  pain.  Her  mother,  too, 
she  knew,  was  suffering  for  Laura,  though  she  invested 
Mrs.  Tennant  with  her  own  temperament,  and  gave 
it  credit  for  an  intensity  of  wretchedness  it  had  never 
known.  Mrs.  Tennant  had  taken  on  an  unwholesome 
yellow.  She  looked  older,  and  the  triangular  frown 
on  her  forehead  had  run  into  a  snarl  of  lines ;  but 
Thyrza  saw  in  these  outward  changes  the  tokens  of 
midnight  vigils,  of  sobs  and  rending  anguish  that 
could  by  no  means  have  sprung  from  that  nature 
unless  Mrs.  Tennant  had,  in  her  own  words,  "  gone 
ravin'  distracted." 

Thyrza  felt  that  she  had  two  tasks :  she  must  study 
night  and  day,  in  pursuit  of  the  intellectual  life,  and 
she  must  be  a  comfort  to  her  mother.  Sometimes  Mrs. 
Tennant  accepted  her  ministrations  with  a  patient 
tolerance.  Often  she  had  to  put  them  by.  Thyrza  had 
heard  of  little  girls  who  were  a  solace  because  they 
read  the  Scriptures  to  their  elders ;  and  often  when 
her  mother  was  buttonholing,  with  the  twist  of  the 

88 


THE   KNIGHT   OF  ELD 


hand  that  seemed  at  once  so  experienced  and  so  bril 
liant,  she  brought  out  the  picture  Bible  from  the 
parlor  and  devotedly  read  a  chapter.  Mrs.  Tennant 
fidgeted.  It  was  impossible  to  let  the  sacred  stream 
roll  on  unheeded,  yet  it  did  distract  her  from  her  task. 
Thyrza  knew,  too,  that  a  word  in  season  has  an  up 
lifting  effect  upon  older  guardians,  and  she  fell  into 
a  way  of  appearing  before  her  mother  when  the  su 
perciliary  knot  of  worries  tightened  in  Mrs.  Tennant's 
forehead,  and  adjuring  her  to  "  hope  on  hope  ever," 
or  assuring  her  that  it  is  likely  to  be  "  darkest  just 
before  the  day."  Sometimes  Mrs.  Tennant,  at  such  an 
onslaught,  regarded  her  with  a  mildly  hopeless  look ; 
but  again,  and  valuing  the  child's  wayward  sympathy 
for  what  it  was  worth,  she  would  return  in  her  own 
language,  "  That  ?s  a  good  girl."  Thyrza  knew  this 
was  the  highest  praise. 

Terry  Updike  came.  Thyrza  was  walking  home 
from  the  Corners,  where  she  had  been  for  groceries, 
when  she  heard  behind  her  the  plodding  tread  of 
Judge  Gorse's  Dill.  She  wished  she  had  stepped  over 
the  wall  and  hidden  behind  the  barberry  bushes  before 
ever  this  had  happened  to  her.  It  was  not  because  she 
was  ashamed  of  carrying  parcels,  but  she  knew  she 
must  look  funny  with  three  tucked  under  her  arm  and 
the  big  bag  of  sugar  in  her  hands.  Barton  would  be 
sure  to  ask  her  to  ride,  and  she  would  have  to  look  up 
and  answer  in  the  face  of  an  author  home  from  Eng 
land,  and  it  would  be  agony.  It  all  happened  as  she 
had  guessed.  Barton,  driving  the  old  chaise,  had 

89 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

pulled  up  and  said,  with  the  scrupulous  courtesy  he 
always  used  to  her,  - 

"  Let  us  take  you  home,  Thyrza." 

Thyrza  stood  there  by  the  roadside,  flushed  by  her 
shyness  and  her  walk,  and  looking  almost  pretty, 
though  in  her  own  miserable  conception  she  was  only 
what  her  mother  would  have  called  numb. 

"  No,  thank  you,  sir,"  she  said,  in  a  shy  little  voice. 
"  I  'm  not  going  very  far." 

That  seemed  to  her,  as  soon  as  she  had  ventured  it, 
the  most  hideously  ridiculous  thing  possible  to  have 
said,  because  Barton  knew  exactly  how  far  she  was 
going.  It  was  a  country  formula  of  refusal,  but  oh, 
how  foolish  to  have  used  it  here  !  Barton  was  answer 
ing  gravely,  - 

"  Then  let  us  take  your  parcels.  This  is  Miss 
Thyrza  Tennant,  uncle.  Thyrza,  this  is  my  uncle 
Terry." 

Thyrza  was  passing  the  bundles  into  the  chaise  as 
the  easiest  way  of  parting  with  them  both,  and  there 
seemed  to  be  no  way,  in  courtesy,  but  to  look  up 
when  she  answered  Terry  Updike's  "  How  do  you 
do?"  with  her  shy,  "Pretty  well,  I  thank  you,  sir." 
Terry  Updike  was  looking  straight  at  her  with  a 
keenness  grown  out  of  his  desire  to  know  everything 
that  could  enlighten  him  about  Barton's  frame  of 
mind  or  his  probable  future.  Thyrza  was  a  little  girl. 
Still,  she  was  a  girl,  and  he  had  to  classify  her  in  re 
lation  to  his  nephew.  Thyrza  met  the  glance.  She 
stayed  poised  a  moment,  as  if  it  held  her,  while  her 

90 


THE   KNIGHT  OF   ELD 


own  pupils  grew  black  and  the  red  surged  into  her 
cheeks. 

Terry  Updike  was  a  handsome  man  of  a  foreign 
type.  He  wore  a  long  mustache  and  imperial  in  the 
day  when  imperials  were  no  more  save  with  the  un 
fashionable  or  the  daring,  and  he  had  eyes  of  a  liquid 
meaning.  He  was  taking  off  his  soft  hat  with  a  swift 
movement  full  of  chivalry  and  grace,  and  Thyrza's 
heart  responded  with  a  great  leap  toward  him  and  all 
the  passionate  romance  of  knights  and  lovers.  The 
old  horse  jogged  on,  and  she  was  left  alone  by  the 
roadside,  a  maid  come  into  her  dowry  of  a  dream. 
She  walked  home  in  an  ecstasy.  It  was  not  long 
since  she  had  read  "Jane  Eyre,"  and  Terry  Up 
dike  seemed  to  be  sitting  in  a  garden  with  her  in  a 
perpetual  dusk,  with  the  moth  hovering  over  the 
flower  and  the  lightning  playing  from  the  clouds. 
She  was  asking  him  if  she  suited  him,  and  he  was 
answering,  "  To  the  finest  fibre  of  my  being."  She 
had  not  heard  his  voice,  except  in  this  waking  dream, 
but  it  was  deep,  she  knew,  and  full  of  passion.  That 
was  a  beautiful  word,  Thyrza  thought.  Once  she  asked 
Barton  Gorse  what  he  thought  it  meant,  and  he  an 
swered  :  "  Oh,  warm  emotion  !  It 's  a  word  for  poetry." 

When  she  got  home,  her  mother  was  sewing  by 
the  window  and  the  parcels  lay  on  the  kitchen  table. 
Thyrza  walked  through  the  room  without  speaking, 
and  in  her  dream  laid  her  hand  gently  upon  one  of 
the  parcels.  His  hand,  she  knew,  might  have  touched 
it.  Her  mother  looked  up  briefly. 

91 


THE   STORY   OF  THYRZA 

"  That 's  the  sugar,"  she  said.  "  You  can  empt'  it 
if  you  want.  Who  's  that  with  Barton  Gorse?  Looked 
like  an  elderly  man." 

Thyrza  turned  in  sudden  suspicion.  It  seemed  as  if 
her  mother  almost  meant  to  wound  her. 

"  It 's  Mr.  Terry  Updike,"  she  said  chokingly. 

A  swift  tremor  ran  over  her  at  saying  his  name  at 
all. 

"  Oh  ! "  returned  her  mother,  unreeling  a  needle 
ful  of  thread.  "  Well,  he  is  a  kind  of  an  elderly  man. 
He  ain't  been  here  for  nigh  onto  twenty  years,  I 
guess." 

Thyrza  walked  away  into  the  kitchen  garden. 
There  was  a  breach  she  knew  between  her  and  her 
mother.  "  An  elderly  man,"  her  indignant  mind  kept 
repeating;  but  caught  by  its  reminiscent  sound, 
memory  tossed  her  another  term  she  had  fallen  upon 
in  her  reading, — "a  knight  of  eld."  She  repeated  it 
in  an  ecstasy :  "  a  knight  of  eld."  The  dahlias  were 
blooming  hard  in  the  garden,  a  sturdy  row  all  along 
by  the  old  gray  fence.  She  had  been  saving  one,  a 
deep  red  with  petals  perfectly  quilled,  to  carry  the 
minister's  wife,  whose  dahlias  were  all  straw-color  and 
a  miserable  pink ;  but  now  she  snapped  the  stem  and 
set  the  flower  in  the  neck  of  her  brown  dress.  In  a 
moment,  she  did  not  know  why,  she  had  unbraided 
her  thick  black  hair  and  let  it  sweep  about  her  face, 
and  taken  the  narrow  velvet  from  her  neck  to  snood 
it.  She  tucked  the  dahlia  into  the  snood  and  stood 
there  looking  at  the  yellowing  sky  and  repeating  to 

92 


THE   KNIGHT  OF   ELD 


herself,  "  a  knight  of  eld."  A  wind  had  risen,  and  she 
went  through  the  orchard  and  into  the  pasture  to  run 
in  the  face  of  it  and  let  it  sweep  back  her  hair.  She 
could  almost  feel  that  Terry  Updike  saw  her,  as  she 
fled,  and  found  her  beautiful.  The  sun  went  down, 
and  she  ran  in,  the  sun  and  wind  in  her  face  and  the 
dahlia  still  in  her  tangled  locks. 

Her  mother  was  making  biscuits,  and  there  was  a 
warm  odor  of  apple-sauce  through  the  house.  Mrs. 
Tennant  looked  up  with  one  of  her  casual  glances,  and 
stayed  her  hand. 

"  For  mercy  sake !  "  said  she.  "  Do  go  up  chamber 
an'  comb  your  hair.  It  looks  like  a  hurrah's  nest." 

Thyrza  went  up  with  the  impetus  of  her  new  pos 
session  still  upon  her ;  but  as  she  passed  aunt  Ellie, 
sitting  by  the  fire  with  a  book  held  wisely  in  her  lap, 
the  little  creature  put  out  her  hand  and  whimpered 
until  Thyrza  stayed  beside  her.  Aunt  Ellie  lifted  the 
hand  higher,  to  stroke  the  dahlia  petals. 

"  Pretty  !  "  she  chanted.  "  Nice  pretty  ! " 

Thyrza,  in  her  chamber,  braided  her  hair  scorn 
fully  and  with  a  cold  patience  appropriate  to  one  who 
was  living  out  a  story.  Her  mother  had  bade  her  do  it, 
she  thought,  and  it  was  her  destiny  to  yield ;  but  she 
laid  the  dahlia  in  a  drawer  between  her  two  best  hair- 
ribbons,  to  fade  and  dry,  and  remind  her  perpetually 
of  to-day. 

Thyrza  kept  a  diary  at  this  time  in  an  old  writing- 
book  Andy  McAdarn  had  "  hove  away,"  as  he  said, 
because  he  had  no  understanding  of  the  letter  "  q,' ' 

93 


THE   STORY  OF   THYRZA 

and  his  first  assault  upon  it  had  been  hooted  at  so 
vociferously  by  the  boy  who  sat  with  him  and  who 
made  skillful  reproductions  of  it  on  the  board  at  noon, 
to  the  joy  of  his  comrades,  and  their  downfall  when 
Andy  settled  that  score.  She  was  accustomed  to  write 
a  few  lines  in  it  just  before  going  to  bed,  putting 
down  the  number  of  verses  she  had  learned,  or,  in 
these  prouder  days,  the  lines  of  Virgil.  But  now, 
though  she  knew  it  was  the  moment  for  setting  the 
table  and  that  her  mother  would  expect  that  dutiful 
aid,  she  flew  to  the  window  and  in  the  last  light  put 
down  in  her  diary,  "  He  has  come.  A  knight  of  eld. 
Dahlias."  Then  she  ran  into  her  mother's  room  and 
took  down  the  old  broken-pointed  scissors  that  were 
always  hanging  over  the  string  basket,  and,  in  a  pas 
sionate  haste,  cut  off  a  tress  of  her  long  hair.  She 
tied  it  with  a  bit  of  the  narrow  velvet  she  was  wear 
ing  that  moment  when  he  had  begun  to  love  her,  and 
shut  it  into  the  diary.  It  seemed  to  her  that  something 
irrevocable  had  been  accomplished.  She  felt  in  some 
way  which  it  was  unnecessary  to  understand,  as  if  they 
had  spoken  their  troth,  and  that  although  the  lock  of 
hair  was  in  her  book,  it  was  also  in  his  keeping. 

She  went  down  to  supper  with  a  staid  and  dignified 
air.  It  was  apparent  to  her  that,  now  she  was  plighted 
to  one  of  his  great  gifts  and  incomparable  beauty,  she 
could  never  stoop  to  childish  actions.  She  was  a  grown 
up  lady,  and  it  was  at  this  time  that  she  began  to 
wonder  whether  she  was  not  a  changeling,  and  whether 
her  mother  was  really  her  mother  and  not  perhaps  a 

94 


THE   KNIGHT   OF   ELD 


nurse  with  whom  she  had  been  left  while  her  real  mother 
went  abroad,  to  be  drowned  on  the  way.  She  washed 
the  dishes  with  a  silent  dignity  because  it  seemed  to 
her  all  duties  must  be  fulfilled,  and  then  seated  herself 
by  the  lamp  with  "Endymion." 

"  Shall  I  read  to  you  ?  "  she  asked  politely.  How 
could  she  add,  "mother"?  How  did  she  know  this  was 
her  mother,  and  not  that  lowly,  faithful  thrall?  Mrs. 
Tennant  glanced  at  the  book  and  saw  that  the  lines 
were  of  one  length  and  that  it  had  no  pictures. 

"  If  you'd  like  to,"  she  said  sighfully. 

Thyrza  began,  but  her  mind  was  ever  on  the  proud 
conception  of  herself  as  a  changeling  and  her  mother  as 
the  faithful  nurse.  At  that  moment  of  high  decisions 
and  great  challenges,  she  wondered  if  the  truth  would 
not  be  best.  What  if  she  should  lay  down  the  book, 
transfix  her  mother  with  a  glance,  and  invite  her  to 
tell  all?  She  could  assure  her,  "I  shall  never  forsake 
you.  I  shall  love  you  just  the  same."  These  wonder 
ments  kept  on  in  a  whirling  race  while  she  read  Keats, 
and  her  mother  sewed  and  considered  whether  she 
should  get  enough  apples  to  dry.  It  was  very  quiet 
in  the  dusky  kitchen,  with  only  the  little  bright  lamp 
to  shed  its  circle  of  power.  The  clock  struck  eight. 
About  this  time,  she  knew,  Laura  used  to  stumble  up 
from  the  lounge  where  she  was  always  helpless  under 
preliminary  naps,  and  with  the  cat  tucked  under  her 
chin,  struggle  round  the  room  on  drowsy  errands, 
trying  to  wake  herself  before  the  inevitable  going 
upstairs.  There  was  the  cat,  a  lonesome  round  island 

95 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

of  fur,  still  on  the  lounge ;  but  Laura  was  pursuing 
the  aims  she  did  not  see  under  the  rod  of  great-aunt 
Mary.  Thyrza  ceased  hearing  the  lovely  lines,  save 
as  a  monotonous  drone  set  her  to  complete.  She  tried 
to  blink  her  eyes  open,  and  fixed  them  on  her  mother. 
There  she  sat,  the  worried  snarl  in  her  forehead,  pull 
ing  the  thread  in  and  out.  It  looked  as  if  she  had  sat 
there  ever  since  Thyrza  could  remember  anything;  for 
she  wore  the  kind  of  dress  she  had  always  worn,  and 
her  veined  hands  had  the  same  knuckly  look.  She  was 
the  most  familiar  thing  in  the  world. 

The  book  Thyrza  was  reading  belonged  to  Barton 
Gorse.  In  pursuance  of  her  custom  of  being  careful, 
she  had  wrapped  it  in  a  clean  old  handkerchief,  and 
where  her  thumb  held  it  open  in  the  properest  fashion 
was  a  scrap  of  paper  to  protect  the  page.  Thyrza,  in 
her  daze  of  sleep  and  loneliness,  forgot  how  precious 
it  was.  She  closed  it  recklessly,  and  it  slid  downward 
to  the  floor. 

"The  land!"  cried  Mrs.  Tennant,  startled  into 
life.  "  I  believe  I  'most  lost  myself." 

Thyrza  was  on  her  knees,  her  head  in  her  mother's 
lap. 

"  0  mother,"  she  was  sobbing,  "  don't  you  die,  will 
you  ?  Promise  me  you  won't  die."  It  seemed  to  her 
as  if  nothing  less  than  the  destruction  of  this  dear 
and  homely  creature  was  enough  to  punish  her  trai 
torous  denial. 

Mrs.  Tennant  dropped  her  coarse  sewing  beside  the 
wet  cheek,  where  it  felt  rough  and  yet  divinely  wel- 

96 


THE   KNIGHT   OF  ELD 


come  because  it  was  familiar.  She  laid  a  hand  on 
Thyrza's  hair  and  smoothed  it  with  the  awkwardness 
of  one  who  has  no  habit  of  caresses. 

"  There  !  "  she  said,  "  I  guess  you  better  go  right 
up  to  bed.  I  guess  you  Ve  got  a  kind  of  a  cold,  runnin' 
in  the  wind  so." 

Thyrza  did  go  up  to  bed,  her  face  swollen  with 
tears  and  the  cat  over  her  shoulder  as  one  small  alle 
viation.  She  put  the  cat  on  her  counterpane  and  then 
went  to  turn  down  her  mother's  coverlet,  and  kiss  the 
pillow  and  the  substantial  unbleached  nightgown 
with  a  penitential  fervor. 


That  night  Barton  and  his  uncle  sat  late  beside  the 
library  hearth.  Terry  Updike,  from  the  indoor  habit 
of  his  secluded  life,  had  a  shivering  delicacy  that 
called  for  fire,  the  look  and  feel  of  it.  He  piled  on 
wood  until  Barton  had  to  retreat  from  the  outpouring 
warmth,  and  only  then  relaxed  and  stretched  out  his 
legs  in  a  perfect  ease.  Barton  was  willing  to  be  hot 
or  cold  as  his  uncle  chose.  He  had  been  pathetically 
lonely  at  times  in  Leafy  Road,  and  now  he  felt  as  if 
things  were  happening.  Updike,  out  of  his  relaxed 
mood,  suddenly  turned  on  him  a  probing  glance. 

"Going  back  with  me?"  he  asked. 

Barton  started. 

"Back?"  he  echoed.  "Back  where?" 

"  To  England,  France,  wherever  you  want,  within 
reason.  I've  come  to  carry  you  off." 

97 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

Barton  sank  back  into  his  chair.  He  shook  his 
head,  smiling  a  little  ruefully,  with  an  air  of  knowing 
reasons. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  stay  right  here." 

His  uncle  turned  on  him  a  fuller  look,  one  that 
lingered  and  studied. 

"What  do  you  mean,  boy?"  he  asked  kindly. 
"What  are  you  settling  down  here  for,  at  twenty- 
three?  You're  squandering  your  best  years." 

Barton  made  a  quick  movement  of  dissent,  and  then 
forbade  himself  to  answer. 

"Why?"  repeated  Updike.  "Why?" 

"  I  'm  not  idle,"  said  Barton,  rather  irritably.  "  I 
study." 

"What?" 

"  Latin,  mathematics.  I  'm  rubbing  up  my  Greek." 

"What  for?" 

Barton  turned  uneasily,  to  let  the  firelight  play  on 
his  ear. 

"Oh,  I  don't  half  know.  How  should  I  know  ?  Yes, 
I  do,  in  a  way.  I  'm  tutoring  a  little  girl,  and  that  got 
me  into  it.  Now  I  rather  like  it." 

Updike  answered  reflectively,  in  a  musing  conclu- 
siveness  of  tone,  — 

"  The  little  girl  in  spotted  print,  carrying  the  bun 
dles." 

"Yes." 

"  She 's  not  a  very  little  girl." 

"  No,  but  she's  young  —  not  over  fifteen,  I  fancy." 

"  What  are  you  doing  it  for,  Bart  ?  " 

98 


THE   KNIGHT   OF   ELD 


Barton  paused  for  a  long  interval.  Then  he  broke 
out, — 

"  Because  she  wants  it  so  infernally.  I  never  saw 
anybody  want  anything  in  the  world  so  much." 

"  Is  she  very  clever?  " 

"  Wonderfully.  I  try  not  to  let  her  see  how  much 
cleverer  she  is  than  I  am." 

"  Horrible  child  !  How  does  she  use  her  gifts  ?  " 

"Well,  for  an  instance,  we  began  Latin  together 
this  fall— " 

"You  did  n't  begin?" 

"  No,  I  'd  had  it  before.  I  began  reviewing  labori 
ously,  keeping  ahead  of  her.  Now  she  reads  Virgil 
like  a  shot,  and  I  'm  still  trying  to  keep  ahead.  And 
I  can't,  uncle,  I  simply  can't.  She 's  no  idea  how 
I  'm  tottering  to  my  fall  when  she 's  prancing  along 
with  her  subjunctives  and  ablative  absolutes.  If  she 
should  ever  ask  me  a  question,  I  should  double  up 
under  the  table.  That  she  does  n't  know." 

"  The  little  devil ! "  said  Updike  meditatively.  Then 
he  took  out  his  cigar  and  held  it  between  two  fingers 
while  he  continued,  still  in  that  keen  yet  musing 
way,  "You  wanted  to  go  to  West  Point,  didn't 
you?" 

Barton  twisted  in  his  chair.  He  had  flushed  un 
easily. 

"  How  did  you  know  ?  "  he  parried. 

"  You  told  me,  long  ago  —  long,  long  ago,  in  a  let 
ter.  Then  I  heard  no  more  about  it.  I  supposed  gramp 
was  boosting  you,  and  presently  gramp  had  died,  and 

99 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

I  woke  up  and  realized  you  hadn't  gone  to  West  Point. 
Why  did  n't  you,  Bart?" 

Barton  rose  and  walked  to  the  window,  where  as  he 
approached  he  saw  the  semblance  of  another  firelit 
room  and  his  uncle  looking  quietly  his  way.  But  his 
moving  figure  blotted  out  the  picture  from  the  pane, 
and  he  was  gazing  into  an  impenetrable  night.  His 
uncle  had  asked  the  question  again,  and  he  answered 
from  his  covert,  his  back  still  turned  upon  the  room. 

"  They  would  n't  have  me." 

"  Why  ?  "  The  tone  of  that  question  was  quieter 
even,  but  in  the  same  measure  more  insistent. 

"  There 's  something  the  matter  with  me." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  It 's  my  heart." 

Updike's  lips  formed  a  round  of  assent  and  under 
standing.  Then  they  closed  again  upon  the  cigar.  He 
smoked,  and  the  young  man  looked  out  into  the  night. 

"  The  alternative,  then,"  said  the  older  man,  "  would 
be  something  sedentary,  perhaps.  If  you  can't  go  for 
a  sojer,  why,  you  can  do  scores  of  things." 

"  No,  I  thank  you." 

"  You  have  n't  given  up  the  ship  ?  " 

All  this  was  what  Barton  had  not  mentioned  to  & 
soul.  Strange  things  had  happened  to  his  endurance 
before  he  was  given  that  verdict  on  his  bodily  state, 
but  he  had  not  spoken  of  them.  Then,  having  the 
verdict  and  knowing  at  last  why  the  things  had  hap 
pened,  still  he  did  not  speak.  His  grandfather  had  gone 
out  of  the  world  unmoved  in  the  harsh  judgment  that 

100 


THE   KNIGHT  OF  EL£> 


the  boy  had  no  ambition,  and  Barton,  knowing  that, 
had  merely  been  able  to  curl  the  leaves  of  his  seclusion 
more  imperatively  about  him  and  wrap  himself  in  the 
solitude  which  seemed  to  him  the  only  possible  con 
dition  for  a  crippled  youth.  His  uncle  was  speaking. 

"Does  Helen  know?" 

"Helen?  She's  got  troubles  of  her  own." 

"  Is  that  fellow  hanging  round  her  still  ?  " 

Barton's  eyes  filled  with  angry  tears.  He  nodded. 

"Where  is  she?"  Updike  asked. 

"  With  her  old  governess  in  Canada.  He  's  there." 

"  And  his  wife  ?" 

"  No.  I  believe  not.  It 's  not  so  bad  as  that." 

"  You  ought  to  be  with  her." 

Barton  looked  at  him  in  a  quick  scorn. 

"  She  won't  have  me.  Do  you  suppose  I  should  be 
here  if  she  would  ?  She  thinks  I  don't  understand. 
Helen  's  an  angel." 

"Barton," said  Updike,  with  a  delightful  wheedling 
of  a  sort  that  made  it  intolerable  to  refuse  him,  "  come 
over  to  England  with  me.  I  can  find  lots  of  uses  for 
you."  He  had  meant  to  stretch  persuasion  to  its  limit 
and  say,  "  I  need  you  "  ;  but  it  was  n't  true,  and  he 
could  not  manage  it.  Indeed,  it  was  so  vastly  untrue 
that,  as  he  remembered  at  this  minute,  he  was  only 
here  now  because,  in  the  midst  of  his  perfectly  ordered 
and  absolutely  satisfying  life  over  there  the  problem 
atic  case  of  this  lone  nephew  had  reached  him  like  a 
little  cry. 

Barton  came  back  to  his  seat.  He  was  pale,  and  his 
101 


THE   STORY  OF   THYRZA 

eyes  had  a  suffused  look,  almost  as  if  they  had  bred 
tears.  He  sat  down,  and  with  his  arms  hanging  over 
the  side  of  the  chair,  a  lax  and  miserable  figure  that, 
having  once  renounced  pride,  saw  no  reason  for  any 
show  of  it,  spoke  with  a  pale  decision. 

"  I  can't  fight  it  out.  There  's  nothing  to  fight  out, 
that 's  all.  I'm  no  more  equipped  than  any  other  crip 
ple.  It  amuses  me  to  live  along  here  and  teach  my 
little  girl.  When  she  knows  as  much  as  I  do  —  that'll 
be  in  a  very  few  minutes — well,  then  I  can  see  what 
I  '11  do  next  to  take  up  the  time." 

Updike  had  a  charming  smile.  It  often  helped  him 
to  kindly  domination. 

"Let's  send  her  away  to  school,"  he  said,  with  a 
fascinating  readiness. 

Barton  stared. 

"Thyrza?" 

"  Is  that  her  name  ?  Yes,  the  little  hop-pole  in  the 
brown  frock.  Send  her  to  school,  Bart.  I  '11  pay  for 
her." 

Barton  looked  at  him  with  incredulous  eyes. 

"  By  George  !  "  he  breathed.  "  Would  you  ?  " 

"  I  'd  promise  it  for  a  year.  Perhaps  I  'd  do  more. 
Is  there  anything  she  'd  rather  have  ?  " 

Barton  broke  into  a  laugh. 

"  To  protect  me  from  her  arts  ?  that  infant  of  fif 
teen  ?  "  His  uncle  was  looking  at  him  with  a  kindly 
middle-aged  smile. 

"  Well,"  he  continued,  "what  is  there  she  'd rather 
have?" 

102 


THE   KNIGHT   OF   ELD 


"  Why/'  said  Barton,  watching  him  with  the  lifted 
eyebrow  of  quizzical  consideration,  "  I  almost  think 
she'd  rather  have  a  piano." 

"  Brava !  a  piano  it  is  then.  One  condition  only. 
You  are  to  leave  here  with  me  in  a  week's  time.  Done  ?  " 

Barton  began  flushing  and  continued  to  the  point 
of  a  deep  red. 

"  It 's  a  fact,  is  n't  it  ?  You  want  to  get  me  out  of 
her  way —  that  little  girl.  Don't  be  an  idiot." 

Updike  was  smoking  meditatively,  looking  into  the 
fire. 

"  Oh,  let  her  have  her  piano,  if  she  wants  it.  It  '11 
be  better  for  her  and  better  for  you.  It 's  funny  for  you 
to  have  a  young  girl  here  every  day  reading  Virgil. 
Her  mother  doesn't  come  with  her,  I  take  it?" 

"  Her  mother  ! "  Barton  laughed  again,  satirically. 
He  had  a  vision  of  Mrs.  Tennant  as  he  had  seen  her, 
upon  the  swiftest  of  flights  along  interminable  seams. 
"  We  don't  do  things  that  way  here.  Why,  you  remem 
ber  what  it  is  to  live  in  America,  in  the  country. 
Don't  be  an  ass." 

Updike  quite  approved  of  him  for  forgetting  their 
ill-matched  ages. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  tolerant  of  it  all,  country  customs, 
little  learned  maidens  and  stubborn  nephews,  "  you 
present  the  case  to  her  to-morrow  when  she  comes 
for  her  lesson.  Tell  her  an  imaginary  personage  will 
give  her  the  desire  of  her  heart.  Only  you  know  it 
means  you  come  away  with  me.  It  means  that."  Then 
he  cleverly  turned  the  talk  to  other  things,  and  Bar- 

103 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

ton  found  himself  unable  to  recur  to  qualifying  re 
buttals. 

Thyrza  did  not  go  for  her  lesson  next  day.  She  was 
in  bed  with  a  cold  acquired  by  running  against  the 
wind  with  beflowered  locks.  The  cold  was  not  bad 
enough  to  keep  her  in  bed, .but  she  elected  to  stay 
there,  to  escape  the  possibility  of  going  for  her  lesson 
or  being  sought  to  be  asked  why  she  was  delinquent. 
It  was  impossible  to  go,  she  knew  quite  definitely,  be 
cause  Terry  Updike  was  there  and  she  loved  him. 
Her  love  stood  between  them.  Never  could  she  ap 
proach  him,  never  take  a  step  toward  him  or  raise 
her  eyes  to  his,  because  he  was  the  one  love  of  her 
life,  and  for  some  reason  this  must  be  so.  She  asked 
herself  no  questions  on  the  subject  of  love  and  its 
usages.  She  did  not  try  to  compare  her  passion  with 
any  other,  but  only  recognized  the  new  state  of  being. 
It  was  an  exaltation  all  unlike  the  uplifting  of  sacrifice 
which  had  before  been  her  top  notch  of  feeling.  Now 
she  was  shut  away  into  a  particular  world,  with  him 
only,  the  sacred,  wonderful,  dreadful  image  of  him, 
never  to  come  out  any  more,  she  knew. 

Of  his  part  of  their  mutual  tie  she  did  not  think. 
He  seemed  indissolubly  connected  with  her,  and  it 
could  not  be  that  he  loved  her,  poor  Cinderella  as  she 
was.  Yet  somehow  she  felt  he  did.  The  beautiful 
rhythmic  steps  of  her  own  devotion  were  not  taken 
alone.  Surely  she  heard  other  steps  falling  in  with 
them.  There  must  be  two,  she  was  certain,  dancing, 
singing,  side  by  side.  So  she  lay  in  her  bed  and 

104 


THE   KNIGHT   OF   ELD 


wrote  little  thoughts  in  her  diary,  things  that  meant 
something  to  her  but  would  signify  nothing  if  the 
book  were  found,  and  looked  at  her  slim  brown  hands 
with  the  pretty  nails  and  wished  they  were  beautiful. 
Her  mother  kept  coming  upstairs  at  first,  frowning  at 
her  strange  state  and  dropping  a  kindly  touch  on  her 
wrist. 

"  Seems  as  if  you  was  a  mite  feverish,"  she  said. 
"  But  you  don't  have  no  cold  to  speak  of." 

"  I  want  to  move  my  bed  to  the  window,"  declared 
Thyrza,  the  fever  in  her  hurried  voice.  "  I  want  to 
see  the  road." 

"  You  better  by  half  get  up  an'  come  down  to  sup 
per,"  urged  Mrs.  Tennant.  "  Mother  '11  open  a  tumbler 
o'  jelly." 

But  she  could  not  go.  She  sprang  up,  and  with  a 
passionate  strength  helped  pull  her  bed  about,  and 
there  she  lay  looking  out  of  the  window,  wondering 
what  she  could  do  if  he  did  go  by. 

One  day,  Barton  walked  up  the  road  and  stopped 
at  the  door  to  ask  why  she  had  not  come  for  lessons. 
He  was  so  sorry,  her  mother  came  to  tell  her.  He 
would  call  again  the  next  day.  She  watched  him 
walking  back  home  at  a  swinging  pace.  It  seemed 
incredible  that  he  was  going  to  see  Terry  Updike,  to 
talk  with  him,  sit  at  the  table  with  him,  say  good 
night. 

Next  day,  when  the  sun  was  pale  on  yellow  leaves 
and  crows  were  cawing  at  a  distance,  Barton  came 
again,  and  when  she  in  her  timid  obstinacy  refused 

105 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

to  see  him,  sent  up  word,  with  the  authority  of  the 
preceptor,  that  she  must.  Her  mother,  wholly  dazed 
by  all  the  atmospheric  changes,  helped  her  put  on  her 
clothes,  and  at  the  end  gave  her  a  little  encouraging 
yet  half-exasperated  push  toward  the  stairway.  It 
was  a  pale,  miserable  little  maiden,  all  excitement, 
that  entered  the  room  where  Barton  waited  for  her. 
He  had  few  words  to  spend  on  her  illness.  Barton 
was  playing  a  little  game  with  himself.  If  Thyrza 
snatched  at  the  piano,  he  would  take  it  as  a  sign 
that  he  was  to  go  away  with  his  uncle  to  France,  to 
England. 

"  Get  your  hat,"  he  said  at  once.  "  Come  out  and 
walk.  I  want  to  tell  you  something." 

Thyrza  hated  her  old  brown  hat  with  the  draggled 
feather  too  often  curled  over  the  kitchen  lamp.  She 
went  out  bareheaded,  and  he  followed.  When  they 
were  under  the  maples,  in  that  yellowing  drift  of 
leaves,  he  spoke,  striking  at  the  ground  as  he  talked, 
with  a  stick  newly,  she  was  sure,  in  his  possession. 
At  once  she  felt  it  belonged  to  Terry  Updike.  It 
seemed  a  remarkable  stick. 

"  Thyrza,"  said  Barton,  "  what  do  you  suppose  my 
uncle  means  to  do  ?  " 

She  felt  her  teeth  chattering  on  the  words. 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  He  wants  to  give  you  a  piano." 

She  stopped  and  trembled,  looking  off  into  the 
road  vista,  framed  now  by  thinning  boughs.  It  did 
not  come  to  her  to  ask  why.  It  only  seemed  a  most 

106 


THE   KNIGHT  OF  ELD 


solemn  thing  that  Terry  Updike  should  have    had 
that  wish. 

"He  is  going  hack  to  England/'  said  Barton.  He 
•was  watching  her  curiously,  realizing  that  even  he  had 
not  yet  known  how  intensely  she  could  feel.  "He 
wants  to  take  me  with  him,  and  he  wants  to  give  you 
a  piano.  I  told  him  how  you  liked  to  study  and  how 
you  wanted  a  piano.  He  's  going  to  give  it  to  you." 

Thyrza  had  not  moved.  Now  her  mouth  trembled 
a  little,  and  he  saw  a  tear  roll  down  her  cheek. 

"  I  can't  let  him,"  she  said. 

Barton  roused  himself. 

"  You  '11  be  an  idiot.  Come,  Thyrza.  He  's  a  good 
old  chap.  Don't  you  know  how  old  he  is  ?  " 

Thyrza  scarcely  heard  him.  She  knew  she  could  not 
explain,  but  it  had  become  at  once  evident  to  her 
that  because  she  loved  Terry  Updike  she  could  not 
take  the  piano.  She  turned  to  Barton,  her  solemn 
tear-wet  eyes  fixed  on  his. 

"I  thank  him  ever  so  much,"  she  said,  "but  I 
can't  take  it.  You  tell  him  I  can't  take  it." 

Barton  laughed  aloud.  The  burden  of  his  own  de 
cision  rolled  from  him  at  her  words. 

"You  won't  take  the  piano,"  he  said.  "Well, 
Thyrza  — "  The  sunset  light  was  on  her  face  and  it 
suddenly  came  to  him  that  she  had  a  kind  of  beauty. 
"  Well,  Thyrza,  I  won't  go  abroad  either.  We  '11  sink 
or  swim  together." 

He  put  out  his  hand.  Thyrza  was  looking  at  him 
with  a  piteous  face.  She  had  but  one  thought. 

107 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

"  What  time  is  he  going?  " 

"  On  the  early  train.  I  shall  run  up  to  town  with 
him.  We  can't  have  any  lessons  to-morrow."  He  was 
still  regarding  her  with  his  kindly  quirk  of  the  mouth 
that  was  not  quite  a  smile,  wondering  whether,  after 
all,  she  cared  as  much  about  her  piano  as  he  had 
thought.  He  put  it  crudely,  —  "I  guess  you  like  books 
better  than  pianos  anyway,  don't  you,  Thyrza?" 

Her  chin  quivered  a  little.  No  one,  she  knew,  would 
understand,  except  the  Knight  of  Eld  himself,  and  if 
they  were  never  to  meet  again,  she  could  not  tell  him. 

"  I  guess  so/'  she  said  faintly. 

The  next  morning  she  was  at  her  window,  kneeling 
there  half-hidden  by  the  curtain.  She  had  dressed 
very  carefully,  because  she  knew  this  hour  of  his 
going  was  one  she  should  never  forget.  She  had 
wound  her  hair  round  the  top  of  her  head  in  a  coro 
net,  like  a  picture  in  the  fashion  magazines  "  up  attic," 
and  had  pinned  the  front  of  her  dress  with  her  mo 
ther's  cameo  pin.  At  exactly  the  time  she  had  expected, 
she  heard  the  slow  plodding  of  hoofs  upon  the  road. 
There  they  were,  crowded  into  the  chaise,  Barton  and 
his  uncle,  and  Michael  driving  them.  Terry  Updike 
was  on  her  side,  and  she  saw  again  the  fine  sweep  of 
the  profile,  the  square  shoulders,  the  large  soft  hat 
that  seemed  to  need  only  a  feather  to  make  him  a 
prince  in  the  eyes  of  every  one  as  he  was  in  hers.  She 
crouched  behind  the  curtain  lest,  by  some  chance,  he 
should  look  up.  But  his  face  was  set  forward,  sternly, 
she  thought.  The  Knight  of  Eld  was  gone. 


THE  LETTERS 

W  HEN  Andy  McAdam  was  nineteen  years  old,  he 
ran  away.  The  immediate  cause  of  his  flight  was  that 
his  grandmother,  then  something  over  seventy,  inti 
mated  that  it  was  time  to  sow  the  peas;  but  the  real 
reason  was  that  Andy  felt  spring  fever  in  his  blood 
and  blindly  wanted  to  be  gone.  There  was  nothing  in 
Leafy  Road  to  absorb  a  creature  like  him,  half -gypsy 
and  all  a  rioting  youth  and  health.  He  had  been  so 
bered  with  the  logical  effect  of  turning  deeply  sulky 
when  Laura  Tennant  went  away  to  live  with  her  great- 
aunt  Mary  Hubbard  and  be  educated.  Andy  would 
have  fallen  upon  the  boy  that  should  accuse  him  of 
playing  with  girls ;  but  Laura  was  his  chum,  sought 
out  at  shy  moments  for  hidden  confidences  about  his 
future  riches  and  power  and  hypothetical  experiences 
with  firearms.  Thyrza  he  bore  with  when  he  must,  be 
cause  she  was  Laura's  sister ;  but  she  was  always  talking 
about  things  you  did  n't  understand,  and  being  hurt  or 
proud  when  you  didn't  know  you'd  spoken  to  her. 

That  morning  when  he  ran  away,  the  blackbirds 
were  deep  in  their  jarring  chorus,  and  there  was  a 
smell  of  damp  earth  and  new  leaves.  Andy  rose  from 
the  breakfast  table  and  stretched  himself.  He  was  a 
strange  fellow  for  plodding  country  ways,  very  active 
and  yet  lazy,  a  handsome  creature,  too,  with  great 

109 


THE    STORY   OF   THYRZA 

height  and  strong  shoulders,  and  health  visible  in  his 
reddish  hair  and  ruddy  skin.  His  grandmother,  a  slen 
der  old  lady,  very  straight  yet  with  a  peculiar  way  of 
carrying  her  head  now,  because  her  glasses  never 
seemed  to  h't  and  she  had  to  peer  round  something  to 
see  at  all,  looked  up  and  trembled  a  little.  She  was 
not  afraid  of  Andy,  but  she  knew  how  he  would  hate 
what  she  had  to  say.  Andy  liked  her  very  much, 
though  he  was  often  exasperated  because  her  frailty 
stood  continually  in  his  path.  It  seemed  to  him  some 
times  as  if  she  made  herself  older  than  she  need,  to 
excite  his  compassion  and  so  hinder  him  further.  She 
clung  to  an  inherited  type  of  clothes  that  even  ancient 
ladies  in  Leafy  Road  wore  no  more,  strange  bonnets 
and  figured  veils,  and  caps  with  bulbous  rosettes  of 
satin  ribbon,  when  she  "  went  abroad  "  to  call,  and  an 
tique  little  shoulder-shawls  on  even  a  warm  day.  Andy 
felt  as  if  she  were  playing  the  game  of  age  and  youth 
with  him,  and  as  if,  whenever  the  thought  of  the  sea 
and  a  pushing  wind  came  upon  him,  or  railroads,  and 
he  in  a  flying  engine  bending  forward,  his  hand  on  the 
throttle,  one  of  her  pathetic  little  shawls  waved  before 
him,  a  signal  to  pause.  He  had  a  theory  that  he  might 
have  made  something,  but  that  his  grandmother's  caps 
and  shawls  prevented. 

She  looked  at  him  with  the  little  cant  of  her  head 
that  was  moving  to  him  and  made  him  angry  because 
he  had  to  heed  it. 

"  I  guess  other  folks'  early  peas  are  all  in  by  now/' 
she  said. 

110 


THE   LETTERS 


Andy  growled.  He  had  gone  into  the  shed  to  look 
at  his  gun,  as  it  sat  there  in  the  corner,  and  wonder 
if  he  wanted  to  go  and  shoot  at  a  mark. 

"Thyrza  Tennant  put  theirn  in  herself/'  said  his 
grandmother,  still  watching  him  with  that  poise  of  her 
head.  "She's  a  terrible  smart  girl." 

Andy  growled  again  and  thought  how  handsome 
and  smooth  Laura  had  looked  in  her  placid  beauty,  the 
last  time  she  came  home  to  visit.  Mrs.  McAdam  seemed 
to  read  his  mind  in  a  way  she  had.  They  were  together 
every  day,  and  she  thought  of  Andy  all  the  time. 

"I  guess,"  she  said,  not  maliciously,  but  with  a 
simple  candor,  "  Laura  never  '11  be  back  here  to  live, 


now." 


Andy  ceased  looking  at  his  gun,  and  stared  out  at 
the  chopping-block  in  the  shed.  He  was  thinking  of 
Laura,  with  a  rebellious  bitterness,  and  yet  realizing 
also  that  it  would  be  only  a  few  hours  before  he  should 
be  asked  to  split  kindlings  on  that  chopping-block, 
when  all  the  world  was  calling  him  to  blue  waters  and 
long  roads.  His  grandmother  had  begun  one  of  her 
vexatious  ramblings  wherein  she  told  what  they  both 
knew  equally. 

"  You  see  Laura  got  kinder  ketched  there.  Her 
aunt  took  an'  educated  her  an'  all,  an'  then  when  her 
aunt  was  bed-rid,  of  course  Laura  had  to  stay  an'  take 
care  of  her.  Mebbe  Thyrza  's  got  some  peas  left  over. 
She  's  gone  to  school  now,  ain't  she  ?  Mebbe  I  could 
see  her  when  she  comes  home  at  noon." 

Andy  set  down  his  gun  and,  willfully  silent,  walked 

111 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

out  of  the  house.  His  grandmother  rose  and  peered 
after  him,  though  she  could  not  see  him.  She  listened 
a  moment,  to  hear  whether  he  went  whistling,  but 
there  was  not  a  sound. 

Thyrza  was  teaching  the  district  school,  and  when 
she  came  rustling  home  in  her  starched  dimity,  walk 
ing  with  head  erect  as  she  always  did  because  that 
seemed  to  her  the  way  to  walk,  Mrs.  McAdam  called 
to  her  from  the  door. 

"  You  ain't  seen  Andy  round  the  neighborhood,  I 
s'pose  ?  I  be'n  waitin'  for  him  to  split  me  some  kin- 
dlin'." 

"  No,"  said  Thyrza.  She  had  a  clear,  sweet,  rather 
masterful  voice.  "  You  wait,  Mrs.  McAdam  ;  I  '11  pick 
you  up  some  chips."  She  leaned  her  parasol  against  the 
front  fence,  and  came  hurrying  up  the  walk. 

Mrs.  McAdam  had  great  respect  for  Thyrza  because 
she  spoke  so  prettily  and  was  smart  as  a  trap. 

"Don't  you  do  no  such  thing,"  she  adjured  her. 
"I  can  manage  to  scrape  some  together.  Like's  not 
he 's  gone  fishin',  an'  won't  be  home  till  night." 

But  Thyrza  deftly  picked  up  the  chips  and  then 
"blazed"  the  fire  herself.  When  she  got  home  where 
her  mother  had  their  dinner  of  greens  and  boiled 
potatoes  waiting,  she  said,  with  a  dignified  dis 
pleasure,  — 

"  I  should  think  Andy  'd  be  ashamed  to  make  his 
grandmother  run  round  after  him  all  the  time,  splitting 
kindling  and  things." 

"  Well,"  said  her  mother  tolerantly,  "Andy's  young. 
112 


THE   LETTERS 


He  never  was  cut  out  for  a  farmer.  He  's  a  kind  of  a 
wanderin'  spirit." 

"  I  'm  going  to  speak  to  him  about  it,"  said  Thyrza. 
But  she  did  not  speak  to  him  because  Andy  failed  to 
come  home.  The  spring  went  on  and  summer  passed, 
and  there  was  never  a  word  from  him.  At  first  his 
grandmother  bemoaned  herself  bitterly  that  she  had 
asked  him  to  sow  the  peas,  because  that,  she  always 
believed,  had  been  the  just  cause  of  his  going. 
Andy,  in  her  fond  mind,  developed  into  a  hero  who 
should  never  have  been  set  to  common  tasks.  Then, 
when  her  eyes  troubled  her  the  more,  and  it  was  an 
effort  to  lament,  she  withdrew  into  a  hurt  silence,  and 
became  a  very  old  woman  before  her  time.  She  dated 
all  her  misfortunes  from  the  hour  of  Andy's  flight. 

"  Ain't  it  hard?"  she  would  say  to  Thyrza,  over 
and  over  again,  "ain't  it  kinder  hard  I  didn't  know 
no  better  than  to  drive  him  off,  when  he  's  as  good  a 
boy  as  ever  stepped  ?  A  dear  good  boy,  Andy  was, 
a  dear  good  boy." 

Thyrza  did  not  think  he  was  a  dear  good  boy.  She 
had  passionate  angers  in  her  which  seemed  all  justice, 
and  she  knew  that  if  she  ever  saw  Andy  McAdam 
again  she  should  give  him  a  piece  of  her  mind.  But 
her  heart  ached  too,  in  anger,  she  thought,  though 
it  seemed  strangely  accordant  with  grandmother 
McAdam's  pain  of  loss,  for  she  understood  that  very 
well.  But  whether  out  of  compassion  or  a  fierce 
loyalty  to  the  wandering  youth,  she  assumed  the  care 
of  the  old  lady  in  a  way  that  made  Mrs.  McAdam 

113 


THE   STORY   OF   THYUZA 

cling  to  her  pathetically,  and  awakened  the  neighbors, 
also,  to  a  wondering  service.  It  was  a  kindly  place, 
but  when  illness  had  stricken  one  of  its  children  and 
the  rest  had  thronged  about  with  help,  they  forgot, 
after  a  time,  and  turned  back  to  their  own  vocations. 
But  Thyrza  never  forgot.  She  was  a  vital  creature, 
full  of  life  and  will,  and  born  to  a  passionate  giving 
like  the  fruit  that  drops,  in  a  large  radius,  from  a 
spreading  tree. 

Soon  after  Andy  had  gone,  Laura  came  home  for 
a  visit.  She  had  grown  into  a  tall,  rich-looking  crea 
ture,  with  an  abundance  of  brown  hair  and  a  warm 
skin ;  she  had,  too,  an  unfailing  air  of  gentle  kindli 
ness.  Thyrza,  beside  her,  looked  like  a  thin  race-horse 
all  fire  and  speed,  ready  to  run  till  she  dropped ;  but 
Thyrza  had  not  that  other  potent  and  most  homely 
charm.  Thyrza  might  rush  to  the  aid  of  a  struggling 
world,  but  Laura  went  about  shedding  honey  from 
her  breath. 

When  Laura  was  told  that  Andy  had  run  away,  she 
paled  a  little  under  the  bloom  of  her  cheek,  and  an 
swered  with  a  look  of  tacit  inquiry. 

"  Yes,"  said  Thyrza,  "  I  've  wondered  myself.  Mrs. 
McAdam  never  seems  to  think  of  that.  Of  course 
something 's  happened  to  him." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Laura,  "  that  wasn't  what  I  meant. 
I  was  only  trying  to  think  what  had  become  of  him. 
Oh,  no,  nothing 's  happened  to  Andy  !  " 

"  Why,  how  do  you  know  ?  "  asked  Thyrza,  won 
dering. 

114 


THE   LETTERS 


"  Because  there  has  n't.  He 's  just  run  away,  that 's 
all." 

"  What  made  him  run  away  ?  " 

"He  just  felt  like  it/'  said  Laura.  "That's  all." 

Thyrza  had  again  that  sense  she  had  been  conscious 
of  ever  since  their  childhood,  that  Laura  understood 
all  about  Andy,  in  a  definite  fashion,  even  though  she 
might  never  be  able  to  explain  him  to  any  one  else. 

In  a  few  days  Laura  went  away  again  to  her  dull 
task  of  nursing  great-aunt  Mary,  whose  legs,  to  the 
horror  of  the  townspeople,  who  thought  she  must  have 
incurred  celestial  wrath  to  have  contracted  a  disease 
of  such  eccentricity,  seemed  turning  to  marble ;  and 
Mrs.  Tennant,  after  watching  her  along  the  road  with 

t  O  O 

the  patient  longing  she  felt  all  the  time  now,  like  an 
inward  misery,  returned  to  her  sewing,  with  a  sigh. 

Thyrza  went  on  with  her  studying  by  night  and  all 
her  passionate  service.  She  did  not  question  where 
her  study  would  lead  her.  When  the  neighbors  began 
to  wonder  why,  after  three  years  of  lessons  with 
Barton  Gorse,  she  should  continue  carrying  heavy 
books  to  and  from  the  schoolhouse,  to  utilize  even  the 
time  from  twelve  to  one,  when  she  stayed  at  noon  on  a 
wet  day,  she  could  give  them  no  enlightenment. 

"What  you  goin'  to  do  with  all  you  know?"  they 
asked  her,  at  times. 

But  Thyrza,  who  privately  thought  she  had  accumu 
lated  a  good  stock  of  data,  was  merely  conscious  that 
some  time  there  would  be  a  glorious  event,  and  for 
that  she  was  resolved  to  be  prepared.  When  Barton 

115 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

Gorse  went  away  to  his  uncle  Terry,  still  in  Europe 
and  summoning  his  nephew  in  irritated  letters  as  of 
one  who  was  hindered  from  doing  a  duty  by  the 
obstinacy  of  the  recipient,  she  felt  bereft.  He  was 
like  a  guardian,  the  verdict  of  the  world  she  did  not 
know,  on  all  her  deeds  and  wonderings.  "  Write  to 
me,"  he  had  said,  and  she  had  eagerly  assented.  But 
it  proved,  on  trial,  that  she  could  not  write.  Nothing 
happened  to  her  save  that  she  began  teaching  the 
district  school,  and  kept  on  teaching  it.  She  became 
aware  then  that  her  inward  life  was  all  the  life  she 
lived,  and  this  she  had  been  in  the  habit  of  presenting 
to  Barton  Gorse  in  an  innocent  betrayal.  But  the 
things  that  seemed  quite  natural  to  say  when  you  were 
walking  with  your  teacher,  or  when  you  could  look  up 
from  Virgil  and  ask  about  them,  or  even  when  you 
thought  of  them  in  the  night  and  saved  them  to  talk 
about  the  next  day,  would  seem  very  silly  set  down 
in  a  letter.  Besides,  Barton  would  be  with  his  uncle 
Terry,  who  was  an  author,  and  who  might  graciously 
read  a  line  or  two  out  of  a  letter  from  home;  and 
nothing  she  had  to  say  could  stand  so  high  a  test. 
Terry  Updike  was  a  wonderful  figure  to  her.  For 
months  after  his  visit  in  Leafy  Road,  she  had  thought 
of  him  with  a  single-minded  worship.  He  was  the 
unconscious  arbiter  of  all  her  actions,  and  her  exqui 
site  daily  life,  all  truth  and  cleanness,  as  she  tried  to 
make  it,  was  a  page  that  she  dared  not  think  could 
ever  be  referred  to  him,  but  that  must  be  worthy  of 
his  eye. 

116 


THE   LETTERS 


One  day  she  carried  a  mince  pie  to  Mrs.  McAdam, 
who  found  large  solace  in  rich  food.  Thyrza  knew  a 
great  deal  about  hygienic  theory  and  practiced  it  with 
a  scorn  of  succulent  delights ;  but  she  could  not  quite 
resist  that  look  of  eager  pleasure  on  a  pinched  old 
face,  and  kept  her  ancient  friend  abundantly  supplied 
with  "sweet  trade." 

To-day  she  found  Mrs.  McAdam  smaller,  more  con 
tracted  than  ever  into  the  sphere  of  her  poverty  and 
blindness.  She  sat  by  the  window  in  the  pale  after 
noon  sun,  the  corners  of  her  mouth  dropped,  as  if  she 
were  a  crying  child.  She  looked  up  with  a  quivering 
readiness  when  Thyrza  opened  the  door. 

"Thyrza,"  said  she,  "did  you  know  my  sight's 
failin'me?" 

"Yes,"  said  Thyrza,  "I  knew  it.  There,  Mrs. 
McAdam,  I've  brought  you  a  saucer  pie." 

"I  won't  cut  it  till  supper-time,"  said  the  old  lady. 
"Thyrza,  don't  it  seem  to  you,  now  my  sight's  failin' 
me,  as  if  Andy  might  write  me  a  line  or  two?" 

Indignant  comment  rose  to  Thyrza's  lips,  but  she 
turned  it  into  soothing. 

"He'll  write,  Mrs.  McAdam.  Andy '11  write  when 
he  gets  round  to  it." 

But  when  she  had  talked  over  the  neighborhood 
news,  and  laid  the  fire  for  supper,  she  walked  home 
thoughtfully  and  up  into  her  chamber,  there  to  perch 
on  the  bed,  her  chin  in  her  hand,  and  think  again. 
She  was  not  sure  that  she  was  going  to  do  right,  but 
she  was  clearly  convinced  that  something  must  be  done. 

117 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

That  night  she  stayed  in  her  room  writing,  while 
her  mother  sewed  below,  and  next  morning  she  ran 
over  to  the  post-office  and  then  back  to  Mrs. 
McAdam's.  There  was  a  thick  envelope  in  her  hand. 
She  burst  in  on  her  old  friend,  now  occupied  with 
the  painstaking  task  of  clearing  up  after  breakfast. 
Thyrza  dared  not  wait  for  greetings,  lest  her  purpose 
fail. 

"  Only  think  ! "  she  cried.  "I've  been  to  the  post- 
office  and  I've  brought  you  a  letter." 

Mrs.  McAdam  laid  down  her  dish  towel  and  stood 
still  at  the  table,  supporting  herself  by  one  trembling 
hand. 

"Who's  it  from?"  she  asked  weakly.  "Open  it, 
dear,  open  it.  Who's  it  from?" 

Thyrza  tore  it  open  in  a  desperate  haste.  Her  eyes 
were  bright  with  a  kind  of  moral  terror. 

"  It's  signed,"  she  said,  in  a  clear  voice,  "  *  Yours 
with  love,  Andy  McAdam.' ' 

Mrs.  McAdam  turned  away  from  her  and  walked 
over  to  her  own  particular  chair  by  the  window.  There 
she  sat  down. 

"Well,"  she  whispered,  "what's  he  say?" 

It  was  a  remarkable  letter.  Andy  was  well,  but  not 
happy,  because  he  wanted  to  see  his  grandmother  so 
much.  Yet  he  was  getting  on,  and  he  hoped  in  time  to 
have  something  in  the  bank,  and  then  he  meant  either 

O  ' 

to  send  her  money  regularly  or  to  come  home  to  live 
with  her.  He  loved  her  dearly.  She  had  been  the  best 
friend  to  him  that  ever  a  boy  had,  and  the  time  would 

118 


THE   LETTERS 


come  when  he  would  prove  it.  This  was  a  particularly 
warm  and  outspoken  letter  for  a  tongue-tied  youth 
like  Andy,  but  his  grandmother  remembered  the  times, 
years  ago,  when  he  had  come  shamefacedly  to  her  at 
twilight,  just  before  he  went  to  bed,  and  stretched 
himself  at  her  feet,  to  put  his  head  in  her  lap  while 
she  stroked  his  hair.  Andy  was  like  a  dog  in  wanting 
his  head  rubbed,  and  now,  when  these  warm  words 
came  in  Thyrza' s  eager,  throbbing  voice,  his  grand 
mother  seemed  to  feel  again  under  her  old  fingers  that 
thick,  rough  crop  of  red.  But  all  she  could  say  was, — 

"  You  look  over  it  ag'in,  Thyrza,  an'  see  if  he  don't 
say  what  he  's  doin'  of." 

"  No,"  said  Thyrza,  "  he  does  n't  say." 

"  You  look  at  the  postmark,  dear." 

"  It's  blotted,"  said  Thyrza.  Then  catching  the  dis 
appointment  in  the  old  face,  she  glanced  again.  "  Oh/' 
said  she,  "  it 's  a  place  in  Missouri." 

"You  give  it  here,"  Mrs.  Me  Adam  bade  her.  "I'd 
kinder  like  to  see  'f  I  can't  make  suthin  of  it." 

Thyrza  left  her  alone  with  her  letter,  and  for  this 
once  it  happened  that  her  dreams  were  true.  Grand 
mother  McAdam  loved  her  letter  as  passionately  as 
the  romantic  heart  could  wish. 

Thyrza  was  always  imagining  the  most  poetic  things 
for  everybody  to  do  in  any  given  place,  and  undis 
mayed,  when  they  failed  to  do  them,  imagining  again. 
Once  she  had  heard  that  Captain  Frisbee  was  coming 
home  from  a  voyage,  and  had  instantly  conceived  the 
picture  of  his  wife's  meeting  him  at  the  steps  and 

119 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

throwing  herself  into  his  arms,  perhaps  with  a  joyous 
cry.  But  she  had  happened  to  be  at  the  station  to  meet 
Laura  the  day  Captain  Frisbee  came,  and  the  captain's 
wife  was  there,  too.  Mrs.  Frisbee  was  sitting  out  with 
the  team,  waiting,  a  large,  important  figure  in  a  cash 
mere  shawl,  and  Captain  Frisbee  had  appeared  bear- 
ins:  one  end  of  his  chest,  while  the  station-master  car- 

O  ' 

ried  the  other.  He  had  cast  an  incidental  glance  at  his 
wife,  and,  seeing  her  in  unimpaired  solidity,  had  re 
marked  to  the  station-master,  as  they  fitted  in  the  trunk, 
" Cant  her  a  leetle  to  the  no'theast,  Billy" ;  after  which 
he  took  the  reins  from  his  wife's  hand,  jumped  in,  and 
said,  in  quite  his  usual  tone,  "Any  errands,  Mary?" 
This  was  always  happening.  Thyrza  was  forever 
painting  the  picture  in  dazzling  colors,  and  the  world 
was  as  regularly  toning  it  down.  But  grandmother 
McAdam  would  have  satisfied  her  :  for  that  night  and 
for  many  nights  after,  indeed,  until  another  letter 
came,  she  slept  with  her  treasure  under  her  pillow. 
By  and  by  there  were  other  letters,  and  all  that  win 
ter  they  kept  on  coming.  Andy  told  nothing  but  good 
news.  It  could  not  have  been  otherwise,  for  he  was  on 
the  tip-top  of  prosperity  and  had  only  the  best  of  news 
to  tell.  He  gave  no  hope  of  returning,  but  grand 
mother  understood  that  was  only  because  of  the  delay 
of  fortune.  When  he  could  leave  with  safety  to  his 
investments,  she  would  see  him  home.  The  neighbors 
had  had  little  idea  of  grandma's  living  through  the 
winter ;  but  under  the  impetus  of  joy  she  brightened 
wonderfully.  She  even  said  one  day,  — 

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THE   LETTERS 


"  Thyrza,  I  'most  think  my  eyes  are  a  mite  clearer." 
Still  she  did  not  see  any  better.  Perhaps  it  seemed  to 
her  that  she  could  discern  the  picture  of  Andy's  pros 
perous  life. 

One  afternoon  in  the  early  spring,  three  years  after 
Andy  had  gone  away,  Thyrza  had  read  to  her  the 
most  beautiful  letter  of  all.  It  told  how  Andy  had  been 
settled  for  some  months  in  a  mining  country,  and  how 
he  hoped  to  come  home  with  his  pockets  full  of  rocks. 
Thyrza,  as  she  read  these  vulgar  expressions,  hated 
them,  but  they  were  exactly  the  phrases  Andy  had  to 
use,  and  to  grandma  McAdam  they  brought  almost  his 
visible  presence  into  the  room.  Then  Thyrza  laid  down 
the  sheet  and  looked  up  at  the  old  woman  nodding  her 
delight  over  Andy's  lips  at  her  ear,  telling  his  good 
fortune,  and  wondered  if  it  would  not  be  possible  for 
grandma  McAdam  to  be  called  away  while  she  was 
so  content.  Thyrza  had  swift  dramatic  ways  of  dispos 
ing  of  people  who  were  either  in  trouble  or  robbed  of 
the  robust  and  vivid  joys  of  living.  She  found  her 
self  always  pushing  them  off  into  another  life  where, 
the  Bible  told  her,  the  crooked  was  made  straight. 
There  was  no  way  out  of  it  for  grandma  McAdam 
unless  she  died  or  Andy  came  home,  and  Andy  was  a 
wandering  star  and  would  never  come  home  at  all. 
And  Thyrza,  after  saying  good-night,  went  out  of  the 
shed-door  in  the  gathering  dusk,  and  met  Andy  face 
to  face. 

She  retreated,  and  stood,  her  back  against  the  door, 
defending  it  from  him.  A  throb  in  her  breast  told  her 

121 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

how  glad  she  was  to  see  him.  He  had  been  a  man  when 
he  went  away,  with  full  stature  and  strength.  But 
though  he  could  not  have  grown,  he  was  more  than 
that  now.  His  frame  had  knit  itself  into  something 
splendid  in  power  and  the  promise  of  endurance.  His 
face,  the  red  of  health  in  it,  mixed  with  that  sanguine 
color  in  a  potency  that  seemed  to  deny  the  weakening 
of  time,  was  lighted  by  his  bold,  compelling  eyes,  and 
his  red-brown  hair  seemed  to  curl  as  if  it  had  a  sepa 
rate  life  of  its  own,  and  every  lock  would  live  and 
move  of  its  own  vitality  if  it  were  shorn  and  scattered. 
The  earth  had  given  birth  to  a  man  in  Andy,  and  the 
power  and  strength  she  had  put  into  him  were  enough 
to  drive  him  fast  on  any  road  and  drag  willing  cap 
tives  after  him.  He  was  regarding  Thyrza  with  a  smile 
of  open-eyed  approval. 

"  By  George!"  he  said,  "I  didn't  think  you'd 
turn  into  this  kind  of  girl.  You're  as  handsome  as  a 
picture.  Gramma  inside?" 

Thyrza  crimsoned  to  her  hair.  People  had  not  been 
in  the  habit  of  telling  her  she  was  handsome  as  a 
picture,  and  when  she  looked  in  the  glass  with  anxious 
scrutiny,  her  mother's  own  worried  frown  born  sud 
denly  in  her  brow,  she  sometimes  wondered  if  she  had 
any  good  looks  at  all.  But  save  as  an  unconscious 
shock,  to  rouse  dormant  responses  and  be  remembered 
afterwards,  whatever  he  could  say  to  her  must  have 
no  effect  on  her  now.  She  thought  of  grandma. 

"  Come  out  through  the  orchard,"  she  said.  "  I  've 
got  to  see  you  first." 

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THE   LETTERS 


Andy's  face  sobered. 

"  She  's  alive,  ain't  she?"  he  insisted. 

A  small  wave  of  anger,  not  like  the  surge  Thyrza 
expected  to  feel,  touched  her  for  a  moment,  at  think 
ing  he  could  be  away  three  years  and  not  know  whether 
his  grandmother  was  dead  or  not.  But  she  could  not 
fight  that  out.  She  was  leading  the  way  into  the 
orchard  and  he  was  following,  giving  one  glance  at 
the  road  where  a  man  and  a  young  woman  were  driv 
ing  by. 

"Old  Pelton!  or  I'll  be  shot!"  said  Andy.  "He 
ain't  changed  a  hair.  That  ain't  Rosie  May  with  him?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Thyrza  absently,  after  one  glance  at 
the  plump  figure  and  the  nodding  feathers,  "  that 's 
Rosie  May." 

"  Remember  how  you  busted  her  play-house  ?  If 
I  've  thought  of  that  once  in  the  last  three  years  I  've 
thought  of  it  forty  times." 

They  were  facing  each  other  now  down  under  the 
sopsavine.  The  trees  were  in  bloom,  and  beside  the 
apple  fragrance  there  was  the  elusive  scent  of  spring. 
Thyrza  felt  the  pleasure  and  the  sharp  ache  of  it  all, 
—  spring,  twilight,  the  moment  when  youth,  in  its 
causeless  melancholy,  longs  for  death  because  it  can 
imagine  nothing  else  so  great  to  long  for,  as  if  the 
change  itself  must  be  as  poignant  as  the  grief  it  brings. 
For  no  reason  it  came  to  her,  in  one  wave  of  tragic 
pain,  that  it  would  be  sweet  to  die  with  Andy  under 
the  apple-boughs,  and  know  no  more.  Yet  when  she 
had  these  fleeting  desires  for  death,  it  always  seemed 

123 


THE   STORY  OF   THYRZA 

to  her  as  if  her  own  curious  spirit  would  be  waking 
still,  observing  the  earth  and  seeing  how  much  people 
regretted  her.  But  there  was  much  to  be  said,  and  as 
the  awkwardness  of  it  came  upon  her,  she  knew  Andy 
would  laugh,  and  with  unconscious  cleverness  made  a 
stroke  at  him. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  why  you  have  n't  written  to 
your  grandmother  all  this  time." 

Andy  broke  off  an  apple-bloom  and,  putting  his  head 
on  one  side  to  note  the  effect,  held  it  against  her  cheek. 
He  shook  his  head  then  and  threw  the  bloom  away. 

"  No  good,"  he  said,  "  you  ain't  pink.  You  're  red 
and  brown.  Why  didn't  I  write  ?  Why,  'cause  I  did  n't, 
that 's  all !  After  I  've  been  in  the  room  five  minutes, 
she  never  '11  know  whether  I  wrote  or  not." 

Andy  had  not  had  to  live  many  years  to  find  that 
out.  He  had  the  gift  of  pleasing,  sometimes  even 
without  active  effort  or  even  speech.  Thyrza  felt  sud 
denly,  not  like  a  righteous  judge,  but  the  foolish  cul 
prit  brought  unexpectedly  to  book. 

"  She  wanted  to  hear  from  you  dreadfully.  She  was 
so  lonesome  she  'most  died." 

"  Sho ! "  said  Andy,  with  a  cordial  interest.  "  Well, 
I  '11  make  it  up  to  her.  Say,  Thyrza,  I  Ve  got  money." 

Thyrza  looked  at  him,  her  lips  parted,  her  eyes  wide. 
She  had  never  yet  met  anybody  who  made  money  save 
from  the  proceeds  of  selling  a  cow,  and  then  another 
cow  had  to  be  bought  in  place  of  it,  and  the  joy  was 
fleeting.  Andy  smiled  gloriously  at  her.  This  stunned 
surprise  was  what  he  hoped  for. 

124 


THE   LETTERS 


"  Yes/'  he  said,  "  I  've  been  west.  First  I  went  on 
the  railroad.  Then  I  got  in  with  a  feller  that  had 
a  kind  of  a  nose  for  such  things,  and  we  bought 
some  land,  and  there  was  copper  in  it  same  as  he  said 
there  'd  be.  We  sold  out,  and  I  need  n't  do  another 
stroke  of  work,  if  I  don't  want  to." 

Thyrza  was  aghast  with  the  fateful  wonder  of  it. 

"  Why,"  said  she,  "  I  told  her  't  was  a  mine." 

"Told  who?" 

"  Your  grandmother." 

"How'd  you  know?" 

"  Oh,  I  had  to  say  something !  " 

"  But  you  did  n't  know  ?" 

"  I  wrote  letters  to  her." 

Andy  stared. 

"  Wrote  letters  to  her?  "  he  repeated. 

"  Yes."  It  became  more  difficult  with  every  word, 
and  Thyrza,  in  her  vain  strength  of  mind,  feared  ex 
ceedingly  to  hear  that  derisive  hoot  of  his.  She  hated, 
in  a  moral  question  like  this,  to  be  put  in  the  wrong, 
and  all  winter  she  had  known  well  that  it  was  a  moral 
question.  She  lifted  her  head,  and,  with  a  flushed 
cheek  and  kindling  eye,  essayed  her  own  defense. 
"  You  did  n't  write  to  your  grandmother,  and  she  was 
alone  and  old,  and  'most  blind  —  " 

Andy  was  listening  curiously,  but  the  one  word 
caught  and  held  him. 

"Blind?"  he  echoed. 

"  Yes.  The  doctor  says  it 's  cataract.  She  can't  see 
hardly  at  all.  So  I  wrote  letters  to  her  as  if  they  were 

125 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

from  you,  and  I  read  them  to  her,  and  she  was 
pleased." 

Andy  had  kept  on  staring  at  her,  but  now  Thyrza 
did  not  care  whether  he  blamed  her  or  not,  or  even 
whether  her  perfidy  should  be  known,  and  perhaps 
grandma  McAdam  cease  thinking  she  was  such  a 
starched-dimity  miss  and  learn  that  she  had  been  only 
a  forger  after  all.  Andy  stood  immovable.  His  im 
agination  seemed  unable  to  grapple  with  the  case. 

"  You  wrote  letters  and  said  they  were  from  me?" 
He  repeated  it  incredulously. 

"  Yes,"  said  Thyrza,  holding  her  head  higher. 

"Nice  letters?" 

"  Nice  as  I  could  write." 

"  Tell  her  I  was  prosperin'  ?  Give  her  my  love 
and  all  that  ?  " 

"Yes." 

Andy  did  not  laugh.  She  stole  a  quick  look  at 
him  and  saw  how  his  face  had  softened.  Even  the 
full,  curved  lips  seemed  trembling  a  little.  He  came 
a  step  nearer,  and  Thyrza,  to  whom  it  had  not  oc 
curred  that  new  things  of  that  sort  came  with  an 
assault,  found  she  was  in  his  arms. 

"  You're  a  trump,  Thyrza,"  Andy  was  saying,  in  a 
moved  voice  close  to  her  ear.  "  You  're  a  trump,  if 
ever  there  was  one."  Then  his  lips  had  touched  her 
cheek  softly  and  as  she  drew  her  head  back  with  an 
impulse  of  wondering  terror,  he  had  kissed  her  on 
the  mouth,  and  she  had  released  herself,  or  he  had 
let  her  go.  She  could  not  look  at  him  now,  but  she 

126 


THE   LETTERS 


gazed  past  him,  and  her  breath  came  sobbingly  with 
the  sense  of  escape  and  the  knowledge  of  strange 
things.  But  it  was  wonderful  that  it  had  come  so 
suddenly,  for  she  guessed  what  it  was.  This  was 
love;  she  had  read  about  it,  and  she  knew  people 
often  felt  it  quite  suddenly  for  each  other,  and  that 
was  the  sacredness  of  it,  and  the  charm.  It  was  as 
if  Andy  had  come  from  far,  bringing  her  a  rich  gift, 
and  had  not  waited  an  hour  or  minute,  but  had 
poured  it  all  at  once  into  her  lap.  She  turned  and 
swiftly  took  the  path  across  the  orchard  to  the  road. 

"  Thyrza  !  "  he  called. 

She  hesitated,  knowing  she  could  not  look,  but 
letting  him  overtake  her,  if  he  would.  In  an  instant 
he  was  beside  her ;  his  hand  was  on  her  wrist. 

"  I'm  goin'  back  to-night,"  he  said,  "  back  as  far 
as  New  York.  I'm  there  on  business.  But  I  shall 
come  again." 

He  bent  to  kiss  her,  but  for  some  reason  she 
could  not  let  him  now,  and  his  lips  brushed  her 
cheek.  Then  she  broke  away  from  him  and  walked 
toward  home,  while  Andy  strode  in  to  tell  grandma 
he  was  alive  and  the  beautiful  letters  were  all  true. 

Thyrza  went  softly  in  at  the  back  way,  not  to  call 
forth  a  question  from  her  mother,  and  slipped  up 
stairs  to  her  own  room.  She  knelt  by  her  bed,  and 
buried  her  burning  face  in  the  little  white  quilt.  It 
had  come,  her  heart  told  her,  love  and  all  the  joy 
and  pain.  Something  was  gone,  too,  with  the  touch 
of  those  invading  lips.  Something  had  even  vio- 

127 


THE    STORY   OF   THYRZA 

lated  the  room  where  her  maiden  life  had  flamed  on 
untouched  and  calm.  There  was  a  warm  presence  in 
it,  a  dominating  will,  a  crude  demandingness  that 
almost  burned  her  up  with  the  heat  of  self-assertion. 
And  it  had  all  come  so  swiftly.  Years  ago  she  had 
decided,  in  her  childish  mind,  that  Andy  and  Laura 
would  be  married  when  they  grew  up.  Their  childish 
companionship  needed  only  a  shade  more  of  intimacy 
to  be  called  "  going  together."  But  in  some  strange 
way  it  had  been  decreed  that  Andy  should  bring 
the  gift  to  her,  and  that,  since  it  inspired  her  with  a 
terror  which  was  not  denial,  it  must  be  her  gift. 

That  night  she  dressed  her  dark  hair  in  beautiful 
lustrous  braids  and  made  herself  sweet  in  a  scrupu 
lous  care  that  was  like  adorning  for  a  bridal.  Her 
mother  looked  at  her  and  wondered. 

66  What  you  got  on  your  cashmere  for  ? "  she 
asked,  and  Thyrza,  in  the  exaltation  that  sustained 
her  since  her  crowning,  could  not  stoop  to  palter. 

"Andy's  come,"  she  said  simply,  lifting  her  head 
in  a  sweet  pride.  Her  lips  took  on  a  smiling  curve. 
She  hardly  dared  think  of  them  and  the  chrism  of 
that  kiss  lest  her  color  should  betray  her. 

Mrs.  Tennant  laid  down  her  work. 

"Andy  Me  Adam!" 

"  Yes." 

"Well !  "  said  Mrs.  Tennant,  in  a  pregnant  ejacu 
lation.  "How 'she  look?" 

"  I  can't  tell,"  said  Thyrza,  out  of  her  dream. 

"  What 's  his  grandmother  say  to  him  ?  " 

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THE   LETTERS 


"  I  did  n't  see  them  together.  I  met  him  at  the 
door.  We  talked,  and  I  came  home." 

Mrs.  Tennant  said  no  more  about  the  cashmere 
dress.  She  was  too  full  of  small  wonderments.  Had 
Andy  done  well  or  ill?  Had  he  come  for  good? 
Thyrza  answered  at  random  now,  as  she  moved  about, 
getting  an  early  supper.  She  wanted  to  have  it  "  out 
of  the  way  "  before  Andy  should  appear.  Then  she 
supposed  that  according  to  the  country  custom  they 
would  talk  a  little  with  her  mother,  and  Andy  would 
perhaps  ask  her  to  go  to  walk,  when  he  would  tell 
her  dear,  intimate  things  such  as  lovers  know,  and 
they  would  part  at  the  door  and  she  would  go  upstairs 
to  dream.  Life  would  never  be  the  same  again. 

But  after  the  dishes  were  done  and  the  kitchen 
looked  as  neat  as  wax,  she  ran  hastily  upstairs.  A 
loyal  rite  must  be  accomplished  before  the  bridegroom 
came.  There  was  a  pressed  flower  in  a  book,  put 
there  when  she  was  a  little  girl,  and  a  date  and  some 
words.  Those  must  be  destroyed  that  she  might  go 
to  her  lover  with  untarnished  faith.  When  she  came 
back  with  her  sacrifice  rolled  in  a  piece  of  tissue  paper, 
to  escape  her  mother's  eye,  she  found  Mrs.  Tennant 
had  gone  to  the  next  neighbor's  to  tell  the  news 
of  Andy's  visit.  So  Thyrza  did  not  have  to  go  into 
the  parlor  to  do  her  deed  unseen.  She  laid  the  paper 
solemnly  on  the  andirons  in  the  sitting-room,  and 
stood  there  while  it  blazed.  Then  she  felt  unblem 
ished  in  her  loyalty.  Terry  Updike  should  be  as  if  he 
had  never  been,  that  Andy  might  be  all  in  all. 

129 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

She  took  a  book  and  sat  down  by  the  window  and 
waited  for  him,  but  it  was  impossible  to  read.  Some 
times  she  thought  her  cheeks  were  too  red  and  ran 
to  look  at  them.  But  she  was  pale,  and  then  it  seemed 
to  her  he  would  not  find  her  comely.  In  spite  of  what 
he  had  said  that  afternoon,  Thyrza  had  grave  doubts 
of  her  beauty.  The  dusk  came,  and  she  lighted  the 
shining  lamp  and  put  it  out  again  because  it  made 
the  room  too  large  and  bright  to  sit  in  with  her  own 
thoughts,  and  no  one  to  tell  her  they  were  natural 
and  right,  or  to  laugh,  in  that  way  Andy  had,  as  if 
he  half  scorned  things  and  was  indifferent  to  them, 
and  yet  tender  of  them.  Then  it  occurred  to  her  that 
if  the  house  were  dark  he  might  not  come,  and  she 
lighted  the  lamp  again. 

At  nine  o'clock  her  mother  hurried  in,  aglow  with 
interest. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  I  've  seen  Andy." 

"  Where  is  he  ?  "  asked  Thyrza  coldly,  because  her 
throat  hurt  her  and  it  was  hard  to  speak  aloud. 

"Over  to  the  Peltons'." 

"  You  been  over  there  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Tennant,  dropping  her  little 
shawl  from  her  head  to  her  shoulders  and  sitting 
down  in  the  rocking-chair  for  a  minute  of  swaying 
comfort  before  she  went  to  bed.  "  I  did  n't  want  to 
poke  in  to  gran'ma  McAdam's,  first  night  he  was 
there,  but  I  did  feel  as  if  I  must  know  if  anybody  'd 
seen  him.  Rosie  May  see  him  first  thing.  She  said 
he  was  goin'  out  o'  the  shed-door  with  you." 

130 


THE   LETTERS 


"  Yes."  Thyrza  looked  at  her  mother  compellingly. 
She  wanted  to  cry  out  in  her  impatience,  and  declare 
it  was  nothing  to  her,  what  Rosie  could  say.  "  Where 
was  Andy  ?  " 

"  Well,  of  all  things  to  happen  !  While  we  were 
settin'  there  in  the  dark  who  should  come  trampin' 
along  the  walk  but  Andy  himself." 

Thyrza  got  up  and  laid  her  book  down  on  the  table. 

"  What  'd  he  want  ? "  she  asked,  in  a  voice  that 
sounded  cold  even  to  her  own  dull  ears. 

"  Why,  first  thing,  we  thought  he  'd  come  to  make 
a  call.  But  no,  he  wanted  Elmer  to  harness  up  an' 
take  him  over  to  the  'leven  o'clock.  Seems  he  had  to 
ketch  the  train  an'  be  in  New  York  by  daylight." 

"In  New  York?"  repeated  Thyrza,  without  emo 
tion. 

"Yes,  Andy's  a  great  man  o'  business  now.  He'd 
got  to  meet  somebody,  an'  I  dunno  what  all.  Well, 
I'll  be  gittin'  along  to  bed."  She  rose  and  stretched 
herself,  yawning. 

Thyrza  felt  small  and  young  again.  She  could 
have  laid  hold  of  her  mother's  skirts  and  begged  her 
to  stay,  until  they  together  should  unravel  this  coil 
of  woman's  being.  In  spite  of  herself  something 
sharp  came  into  her  voice  and  made  it  like  a  cry. 

"  That  wasn't  all  he  said,  mother.  What  'd  he  say?" 

Mrs.  Tennant  had  wound  the  clock  and  given  a 
comprehensive  look  at  doors  and  windows. 

"Yes,"  she  decided,  "that  was  about  all,  I  guess. 
You  see  he  only  come  to  git  Elmer  to  harness  up. 

131 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

He  said  good-by  all  round.  Yes,  he  did  ask  for  Laura. 
'  How 's  Laura,  Mis'  Tennant? '  says  he.  '  How  is  she?' 
I  told  him  she's  with  great-aunt  Mary  an'  likely  to 
be.  I  guess  I  was  the  last  one  he  spoke  to  'fore  he 
went  out.  'I  shall  come  back/  he  says.  'I'm  comin' 
back.'" 

Then  Mrs.  Tennant  opened  the  chamber  door  and 
looked  back  inquiringly  for  Thyrza  to  follow.  But 
Thyrza  had  brought  a  pile  of  books  from  the  cup 
board,  and  ranged  them  on  the  table. 

"I  think  I'll  sit  up  awhile,"  she  said. 

That  was  not  unusual.  Mrs.  Tennant  told  the 
neighbors  with  pride  that  Thyrza  sometimes  studied 
till  'leven  or  twelve  at  night. 

"Well,"  she  returned,  "you  be  careful  o'  the 
lamp."  Then  Thyrza  heard  her  brisk  footsteps  on  the 
floor  above. 

Thyrza  did  study  awhile  because  she  had  said 
she  would,  and  her  rigid  integrity  forbade  her  to 
leave  a  word  unfulfilled;  but  the  stillness  rang  with 
voices,  and  presently  she  pushed  her  books  away, 
went  softly  to  the  door  and  opened  it.  The  night  was 
clear  and  still.  She  knew  where  he  was  now,  walking 
up  and  down  at  the  little  station,  waiting  for  the  train 
and  thinking  of  what  had  come  to  pass.  She  put  out 
her  arms  into  the  dark,  pretending  that  his  thoughts 
had  wings  and  that  she  could  compel  them  to  her. 
Then  she  blushed  and  was  ashamed;  but  drawn  to 
him,  forbidden  to  shut  herself  indoors  before  he  had 
irrevocably  gone,  she  stepped  out  and  sat  down  on 

132 


THE   LETTERS 


the  sill.  This  was  where  she  and  Laura  had  sat,  years 
ago,  to  eat  their  bread  and  milk,  and  now  she  was  on 
her  way  to  love  and  marriage.  The  thought  of  Laura 
ran  like  a  questioning  note  into  this  grave  harmony. 
Laura,  too,  as  well  as  Andy,  kept  calling  to  her,  not 
complainingly  but  wonderingly.  That  made  the  night 
all  the  more  vocal  and  strange.  She  was  almost  ter 
ribly  alive,  responsive  to  every  tie  that  had  ever  held 
her. 

And  then,  as  she  sat  in  her  bright  wonder  at  the 
fullness  of  life,  the  great  wave  that  seemed  sweeping 
in  with  the  sun  on  its  crest,  there  was  a  shriek  of  the 
train  in  the  distance,  and  it  went  away  with  a  dimin 
ishing  roar,  still  like  the  sound  of  waves,  and  she 
knew  Andy  had  gone.  Once  more  she  stretched  out 
her  arms  toward  him,  and  then  rose  to  go  in,  happier 
perhaps  than  if  he  had  come.  She  could  not  have 
borne  the  impetuous  call  of  his  warm  willfulness. 
Now  she  had  her  dream  to  cherish,  that  and  his  pro 
mise.  He  would  come  back. 


VI 

TROY  TAVERN 

J_HE  neighbors  said  that  Thyrza  Tennant  was 
changed.  She  had  been  a  kind  of  a  thinnish  wisp  of 
a  girl,  but  now  she  was  as  handsome  a  ereatur'  as  ever 
stepped.  They  could  not  know  that  this  was  chiefly 
because  Andy  Me  A  dam  had  kissed  her  and  Thyrza 
had  answered  in  a  solemn  troth-plight,  and  that,  al 
though  Andy  had  neither  come  back  nor  written  her 
a  word,  she  walked  in  a  rich  and  stately  dream,  and 
held  herself  remote  from  lesser  things.  She  had  usu 
ally,  though  without  definite  intention,  kept  aloof  from 
her  girl  mates.  They  wanted  to  talk  about  beaux  and 
singing-school,  and  Thyrza  invited  no  less  exalted  con 
verse  than  such  as  might,  at  any  minute,  ripple  round 
to  Emerson's  Essays  or  the  "Everlasting  Yea"  of 
Carlyle.  She  read  with  fervor,  chiefly  what  her  mother 
called  knowledge-books  because,  although  novels,  the 
poorest  as  well  as  the  best,  seemed  all  a  delightful 
invitation,  she  had  doubts  whether  they  might  not 
prove  a  waste  of  time.  Great  parcels  of  books  came  to 
her  from  week  to  week,  often  from  publishers  and 
again  from  the  library  of  the  old  Gorse  house  at  Long 
ford,  fifty  miles  away.  This  was  the  house  that  had 
belonged  to  Barton's  mother,  and  now,  while  he  was 
abroad,  it  was  leased  by  the  minister,  and  to  him  Bar 
ton  had  left  the  task  of  making  studious  selection  of 

134 


TROY   TAVERN 


books  for  a  learned  young  lady  who  meant  to  be  great. 
All  these  books  Thyrza  was  saving  with  care,  for  she 
knew  they  would  some  time  go  back  on  Barton  Gorse's 
shelves;  the  few  novels  she  carried,  according  to 
his  orders,  to  the  little  circulating  library  where 
"Queechy"  and  "The  Wide  Wide  World"  made  the 
top  notch  of  excellence. 

It  was  this  sedate  reading  which  had  set  her  apart 
from  her  mates ;  but  now,  in  her  new  estate  of  hap 
piness,  she  longed  to  be  nearer  them.  It  seemed  to 
her  that,  if  she  was  to  be  married,  she  might  even 
take  to  long  hours  of  sewing  on  bleached  cloth  for 
her  "setting  out ";  and  one  afternoon,  in  a  foretaste 
of  domestic  ardor,  she  took  some  serpentine  braid  that 
had  lain  in  her  mother's  basket,  and  ran  over  to  Eosie 
May's,  to  crochet.  Rosie  May,  sitting  by  the  window 
in  a  sprigged  challis,  her  fair  hair  crimped  to  a  high 
degree  of  excellence,  saw  her  coming  and  called  to  her 
mother,  in  the  kitchen  scouring  tins,  — 

"  There  's  Thyrza  Tennant.  What  do  you  s'pose 
she  wants?" 

Mrs.  Pelton's  ankles  troubled  her  seriously,  and 
she  was  making  her  scouring  festival  a  static  nary  pro 
cess,  all  her  implements  collected  within  arm's  reach. 
She  gave  one  fleeting  glance  from  the  window  and 
did  not  answer,  and  Thyrza,  opening  the  side-door  and 
making  her  way  in,  according  to  the  country  custom, 
found  Rosie  May  alone.  Thyrza  blushed  beautifully, 
all  over  her  face.  She  was  conscious  of  the  rarity  of 
this  gregarious  mood. 

135 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

"  I  thought  I  'd  come  over/'  she  said  awkwardly, 
"  and  see  if  you  'd  show  me  how  to  crochet." 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  Rosie  May.  She  was  hemstitch 
ing  a  ruffle,  with  a  pucker  of  her  pretty  forehead 
when  she  counted  threads.  "  Sit  down.  For  the  land, 
Thyrza  !  what  makes  that  braid  so  yellow?  " 

"  Mother  got  it  a  good  many  years  ago,"  said 
Thyrza.  "  It 's  been  lying  in  her  basket.  I  guess  she 
bought  it  for  us,  and  she  never 's  had  time  from  her 
tailoring  to  put  the  edge  on."  Her  voice  deepened  as 
she  looked  back  at  those  years  of  hurried  stitches. 
"I  guess  't  isn't  very  clean  either." 

"  Well,  it  '11  wash  out,"  said  Rosie  May  practically. 
"  Here,  you  take  this  needle.  Yours  is  a  mile  too  big." 

They  bent  their  heads  together  over  the  work,  and 
Rosie's  plump  finger  flew  back  and  forth  in  a  fashion 
that  seemed  to  Thyrza  the  perfection  of  graceful  ease. 
After  a  time  Thyrza  caught  the  knack,  though  she 
worked  with  a  stiffened  wrist,  and  they  sat  each  at 
her  window,  weaving  and  talking. 

"  When  's  Andy  comin'  home  again  ?  "  asked  Rosie 
May  suddenly.  She  did  not  look  up,  but  Thyrza  felt 
the  piercingness  of  the  question  and  flushed  richly. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered. 

"  I  did  n't  know  but  what  you  might  have  heard 
old  Mis'  McAdam  say." 

«  No." 

"  She  was  terrible  set  up  after  he  come,  mother 
said." 

"  Yes,  oh,  yes,"  agreed  Thyrza,  earnestly,  with  the 

136 


TROY   TAVERN 


relief  of  veering  away  from  Andy's  name.  "  Why, 
she  's  been  as  ambitious !  It  almost  seems  as  if  she 
could  see  better.  I  suppose  it 's  because  she  's  got  so 
much  more  courage." 

"  I  think  Andy  's  awful  good-looking  don't  you  ?  " 
asked  Rosie  May. 

The  question  seemed  like  an  assault,  it  came  so  near. 

"I  don't  know  as  he's  changed  much/'  said  Thyrza, 
with  dignity. 

Rosie  May  laughed. 

"  Well,  he  's  grown  some,  ain't  he  ?  "  she  pursued. 

"  I  don't  know 's  he  has,  since  he  went  away,"  said 
Thyrza  obstinately.  "  He  was  tall  then  and  he 's  tall 


now." 


"  Well,  anyway,  he 's  an  awful  handsome  fellow. 
I  used  to  think  his  hair  was  goin'  to  be  red,  but  now 
it 's  a  little  mite  darker,  I  would  n't  have  it  changed 
for  the  world." 

Thyrza  remembered,  with  an  aching  throat,  the 
touch  of  the  soft  thick  hair  against  her  cheek.  She 
came  to  her  feet  because  it  seemed  impossible  to  sit 
there  another  instant  and  hear  Rosie  May's  innocent, 
clumsy  footsteps  sounding  through  her  house  of 
dreams.  But  Rosie  May  had  scurried  without  warning 
into  another  track.  She  had  dropped  her  work  in  her 
lap.  Her  blue  eyes,  rounder  than  their  wont,  were 
staring  out  of  the  window. 

"  There  's  the  depot  carriage,"  she  said.  "  Who  's  he 
brought  over  ?  Why,  Thyrza  Tennant,  I  believe  to 
my  soul  that 's  Barton  Gorse's  bag.  Barton  's  stopped 

137 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

to  your  house  an'  sent  his  bag  on  along  home.  You 
see  if  't  ain't  so." 

Rosie  was  standing  now,  one  hand  on  the  window- 
sill,  in  the  attitude  of  peering.  Thyrza,  too,  came  to 
her  feet. 

"  I  must  go,"  she  said,  and  with  her  coil  of  edging 
grasped,  regardless  of  method,  she  hurried  out  and 
ran  along  the  road. 

When  she  reached  her  mother's  house,  Barton  Gorse 
had  knocked  and  waited  at  the  door,  and  now  he  was 
walking  down  the  path.  Mrs.  Tennant,  Thyrza  knew, 
had  gone  for  a  rare  afternoon  hour's  shopping,  and 
the  door  was  locked. 

"I'm  coming,"  she  called,  and  Barton  waited  for 
her. 

He  had  changed,  in  a  puzzling  way,  since  leaving 
Leafy  Road,  the  year  before.  Then,  although  he  was 
her  tutor,  he  had  not  seemed  so  very  much  older. 
They  were  comrades  in  so  many  fashions  that  his 
knowing  the  roots  of  words,  and  his  acquaintance 
with  the  far  mysterious  world  that  was  as  yet  to  her 
but  as  a  picture  in  a  book,  had  not  really  removed 
him  from  her.  Now  he  had  developed,  not  actually 
perhaps  in  contour,  but  into  an  air  of  worldly  ease 
that  seemed  to  add  to  his  breadth  and  stature.  His 
face  had  hardly  changed,  the  serious  face  with  its 
sudden  flashing  smile,  except  that  now  it  had  a  settled 
look  of  pain,  born,  she  knew,  of  something  accepted, 
something  silently  endured.  Thyrza  wondered,  with 
a  swift  sympathetic  throb,  what  the  look  meant. 

138 


TROY   TAVERN 


They  met,  and  he  held  her  hand  in  his  and  gazed 
at  her.  She  was  flushed  by  her  haste,  and  his  eyes 
betrayed  a  frank  delight  in  her,  a  surprise,  even,  that 
she  surpassed  his  expectation. 

"Can't  we  walk?  "  he  asked.  "  I  want  to  see  your 
mother,  but  not  yet." 

She  assented,  and  they  turned  back  on  the  road  by 
which  he  had  come.  He  began  at  once  to  talk. 

"Thyrza,  I  did  so  want  to  see  you." 

Her  face  was  lifted  eagerly. 

"  Have  you  come  to  stay  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,  only  a  night.  I'm  due  at  Lava  Lake.  My  sis 
ter  's  there." 

"Mrs.  Davidson?" 

"  Yes,  my  sister  Helen." 

Since  Thyrza  had  grown  up,  she  had  heard  some  of 
the  stories  about  Helen  Davidson  :  how  she  had,  in  her 
beautiful  youth,  run  away  with  a  man  who  afterwards, 
when  his  wife  died,  had  married  her.  How  she  was 
still  as  beautiful  as  in  her  youth  she  had  been  daring, 
and  how  for  a  year  or  more,  cast  off  by  society  for 
her  erratic  course,  she  had  taken  refuge  with  a  colony 
of  people  who  believed  no  more  than  she  did  in  the 
established  order  of  life. 

"  She  'd  been  there  before,  had  n't  she  ?  " 

"Yes."  He  spoke  rapidly,  glancing  at  her  from 
time  to  time,  as  if  this  were  a  story  he  had  meant  to 
tell  her  when  the  moment  should  serve,  and  walking 
a  step  ahead  of  her  now,  so  that  he  could  turn  and 
interrogate  her  face.  "  She  left  there  to  join  her  hus- 

139 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

band.  Now  she 's  come  back.  Thyrza,  I  'm  afraid  my 
sister's  miserable." 

She  had  nothing  to  say  that  would  adequately 
match  the  misgiving  of  his  tone.  He  continued,  — 

"  She  has  written  me  the  truth  at  last.  You  did  n't 
know,  of  course,  —  none  of  the  people  here  know,  — 
how  unfortunate  her  marriage  was." 

Thyrza  opened  her  lips  for  the  innocent  counter- 
assurance  that  indeed  she  knew;  but  it  became  at 
once  evident  to  her  that  his  only  comfort,  in  his  hurt 
apprehension,  was  to  believe  his  sister's  sorrow  had 
been  hidden. 

"  The  first  of  her  being  with  him,"  he  went  on,  "  was 
all  a  horror,  a  miserable,  ignorant,  splendid  act  of  love. 
She  went  away  with  him,  Thyrza,  before  his  wife  died. 
She  was  despised  by  her  own  friends.  I  can't  forget 
it."  His  drawn  face  showed  how  temperate  his  words 
were  beside  the  shame  and  fierce  partisanship  he  re 
membered.  "  They  talked  about  her  as  if  she  were  a 
different  kind  of  woman."  His  mouth  shut  savagely 
on  the  words  as  if  he  bit  them  off.  "They  didn't 
know  her.  She  was  the  sweetest  girl,  Thyrza,  the  most 
innocent  — 

"I  saw  her  once,"  Thyrza  made  haste  to  tell  him. 
"She  was  perfectly  lovely." 

"His  wife  died  and  he  married  her.  But  she  had 
only  about  strength  enough  to  live  through  that 
horrible  time  when  she  was  on  her  defense  against 
the  world.  She  began  to  break.  He  began  to  hate 
her.  He  was  ambitious,  by  that  time.  He  had  gone 

140 


TROY   TAVERN 


into  politics  and  his  domestic  past  was  brought  up 
against  him.  Well,  Thyrza,  my  sister's  wretched. 
That's  the  end  of  it  all.  She's  wretched." 

"And  she's  at  Lava  Lake?" 

"That's  the  strange  part  of  it.  She  is  with  that 
colony  of  men  and  women  on  the  border  of  the  little 
lake  I  told  you  about.  They  have  gone  there  to  lead 
the  higher  life,  they  say.  She  has  joined  them  because 
her  husband  cast  her  off  and  because  she  has  no  social 
affiliations  any  more.  At  last  she  has  written  to  me. 
I  am  going  to  her  to-morrow." 

"Society  is  cruel! "  Thyrza  had  all  the  fierce  way 
ward  certainty  of  youth.  She  saw  the  world  arrayed 
against  a  broken  creature  who,  from  excess  of  courage, 
had  defied  it,  but  only  out  of  a  sweet  innocence. 

"It  has  been  cruel  to  her.  But  I  wanted  to  see  you. 
I  wanted  to  ask  you,  if  I  can  persuade  her  to  come 
here,  if  you  would  be  with  her  at  the  house.  She  '11 
have  a  maid,  you  know,  but  if  she  could  be  sure  of 
somebody  like  you  to  sit  with  her,  read  to  her,  talk 
about  the  innocent  things  girls  like  —  Thyrza,  would 
your  mother  let  you?" 

"  Certainly  I  should  do  it,"  cried  Thyrza,  in  an  ecstasy 
of  response.  She  saw  herself  already  dedicated  to  the 
rescue  of  miserable  innocence,  and  knew  at  last  what 
it  had  meant  when,  a  child,  she  had  wondered  if  she 
should  not  some  time  go  as  a  missionary.  All  sacrifice 
had  been  beautiful  to  her;  this  was  the  supreme  leap 
for  which  her  will  had  been  gathering. 

Barton  had  continued. 

141 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

"  You  see,  when  I  thought  of  you  and  how  she  'd 
love  to  have  you  with  her,  I  hadn't  considered  I'd 
no  right  to  ask  you.  Don't  you  see,  Thyrza,  she 's  just 
the  same  woman  to  the  world  as  if  she  was  n't  a  hurt 
angel  to  me?  The  world  would  say  I'd  no  business 
to  ask  a  young  girl  like  you — and  you  above  all 
people  —  to  go  to  a  woman  with  a  name  like  hers." 

"Oh,  they  couldn't  be  so  cruel!"  cried  Thyrza. 
"  They  could  n't." 

"  Yes,  they  could." 

"Then  it 'sail  dreadful." 

"It  is  dreadful.  And  if  your  mother  was  a  worldly 
woman  she  would  n't  let  you  go." 

"She  will  let  me  go,"  said  Thyrza.  "I  shall  go." 
Her  face  matched  her  tone.  It  was  the  tone  of  willful 
and  deliberate  resolve. 

"You  are  a  dear,"  said  Barton.  "Anyway,  it's 
sweet  to  have  you  want  to  go.  I  have  n't  asked  you 
about  yourself,  Thyrza.  You  have  n't  written  much 
to  me." 

She  shook  her  head.  Her  clear  look  met  his,  in  a 
wonder,  now  she  had  seen  him,  that  she  should  have 
thought  it  hard  to  write. 

"  I  could  n't  seem  to,"  she  answered. 

"  Well,  now  I  am  home,  you  must  tell  me  every 
thing." 

Everything !  She  could  not  tell  him  about  Andy. 
That  suddenly  seemed,  not  a  dissonant  note,  but  an 
unfamiliar  one,  in  their  old  harmony. 

"Let  us  go  back,"  he  said.  "I  must  see  your 

142 


TROY   TAVERN 


mother.  I  want  to  talk  to  her  about  Helen.  But  I 
don't  know  how.  I  can't  ask  her  if  her  daughter  may 
come  to  see  my  sister.  I  can't  put  Helen  in  that  place. 
It 's  easier  to  talk  to  you.  But  perhaps  I  should  n't 
even  have  done  that." 

"  Mother  has  n't  got  back."  Thyrza  was  glad  the 
theme  must  be  deferred.  Her  mother  was  too  literal, 
too  simple,  to  be  confronted,  unprepared,  by  a  great 
burning  question  like  this,  the  rescue  of  innocence. 
It  would  only  bewilder  her,  though,  if  it  could  be 
presented  circumspectly,  Thyrza  knew  what  she  would 
say.  "  She  's  going  to  wait  for  the  six  o'clock,  to  see 
if  there  's  a  letter  from  Laura.  Let  me  tell  her." 

"  You  must  n't  persuade  her.  You  must  abide  by 
what  she  says.  You  're  not  teaching  ?  " 

"  School  closed  early  this  spring." 

They  were  at  her  gate,  and  she  paused,  her  hand 
on  the  latch,  with  a  pondering  look  at  him.  It  was 
better  that  he  should  not  wait,  but  it  was  lovely  to 
see  him,  and  she  wished  he  could  stay,  though  his 
months  of  absence  and  the  strange  countries  he  had 
seen  were  farthest  from  their  thoughts.  They  were 
both  intent,  out  of  passionate  pity,  on  Helen  David 
son  and  her  wrongs.  But  Barton  Gorse  saw  again 
how  exquisite  Thyrza  was,  with  the  beauty  of  strength 
and  tempered  fibre.  She  had  made  the  most  of  her 
youth.  She  walked  well  and  stood  well,  and  looked 
the  world  in  the  eye  when  it  challenged  her,  and,  for 
the  rest,  inheritance  and  country  living  had  done  its 
best  for  her.  She  was  a  fine  young  creature,  and  he 

143 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

took  off  his  hat  with  a  homage  of  which  she  was  sud 
denly  aware.  She  met  it  with  a  flush  and  a  surprised 
and  kindling  glance. 

"  I  must  go/'  he  said.  "  Good-by,  Thyrza." 

She  could  hardly  wait  to  see  her  mother,  although 
the  martial  fire  in  her  was  ready  to  flame  up  if  her 
mother  could  withstand  the  pathos  of  the  question. 
At  last  Mrs.  Tennant  came,  weighted  by  bundles,  and 
disposed  them  hastily  on  the  kitchen  table.  She 
turned  a  flushed  face  upon  Thyrza,  with  the  bright, 
half-triumphant  look  of  one  who  has  brought  news. 
Thyrza  read  the  signal. 

"  Any  letter  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Yes." 

Mrs.  Tennant  extended  the  letter  and  then  with 
held  it,  though  Thyrza's  fingers  were  upon  it,  to  take 
the  eager  privilege  of  telling  the  news  herself.  "  It 's 
only  a  line.  Aunt  Mary's  sick.  The  doctor  don't  offer 
any  hope." 

Thyrza's  heart  gave  a  great  bound.  The  long  exile 
might  be  nearly  over.  Laura  would  come  home. 

"  Does  she  want  us  to  go  over  ?  " 

"  No.  Aunt  Mary  would  n't  hear  to  that.  Laura 
says  it  may  be  a  long  pull ;  but  there  's  no  hope." 

Thyrza  read  the  letter  absently.  It  seemed  a  simple 
thing  that  there  should  rest  a  joyous  satisfaction  in 
there  being  no  hope.  Aunt  Mary  led  such  a  weighted 
life  that  Thyrza  was  innocently  agreed  to  think  of  her 
as  elsewhere ;  and  she  had  many  things  to  talk  about 
with  Laura. 

144 


TROY   TAVERN 


"Mother/'  she  said,  "Barton  Gorse  has  been 
here." 

"You  don't  say !  He  goin'  to  stay  right  along?" 

Mrs.  Tennant  had  seated  herself,  in  a  brief  conces 
sion  to  her  aching  feet  and  to  what  she  would  have 
called  a  "  goneness  "  within  her,  something  that  re 
sponded  to  her  every  thought  of  Laura  and  was  ready 
now  upon  the  intimation  that  their  long  parting 
might  be  over  soon. 

"  He  stayed  over  a  train.  His  sister  Helen  may  come 
here  to  live."  She  watched  her  mother. 

But  Mrs.  Tennant' s  mind  still  dwelt  on  Laura.  She 
answered  absently. 

"  Helen  Gorse  ain't  been  here  since  she  was  your 
age.  She  was  pretty  then,  pretty  as  a  picture."  Thyrza 
waited.  Her  mother,  as  if  in  answer  to  that  inward 
interrogation,  woke  to  a  clearer  memory.  "  She 's  had 
a  queer  kind  of  a  life.  I  guess  she  ain't  been  all  she 
should  be." 

Thyrza  flew  into  the  wild  defense  she  had  been 
preparing. 

"  Mother,  you  don't  know !  we  don't  any  of  us 
know ! " 

Mrs.  Tennant  stared  at  her  briefly. 

"  Well,"  she  returned, "  mebbe  we  don't.  I  've  heard 
the  whole  story,  but  I  can't  say  's  any  of  us  have  got 
the  rights  on 't.  Here!  you  empt'  the  sugar  an'  I'll 
see  to  the  rest  the  things." 

She  got  upon  her  ill-used  feet  and  trotted  off,  at  her 
working  pace,  into  the  pantry.  Thyrza  followed  her. 

145 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

"  Mother/'  she  said,  "  if  she  comes  here,  I  'm  going 
to  be  with  her  a  good  deal.  Barton  Gorse  asked  me 
to.  She  is  n't  strong." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Tennant,  "I  don't  know  how 
handy  you'd  be  nursin'." 

"Should  you  mind  my  being  with  her?" 

"Why,  no,  not  if  you  feel  to."  Then  the  mother 
instinct  went  on  hungering  for  Laura. 

Thyrza  stepped  about  the  house  that  day  in  a  proud 
certainty  that  her  opportunity  had  come.  She  always 
knew  she  had  a  mission,  and  she  had  interrogated 
God  about  it  unceasingly. 

But  when  two  more  days  had  gone,  there  was  a  let 
ter  from  Barton  Gorse.  He  was  with  his  sister  at  the 
Lava  Lake  colony,  a  place  of  dire  melancholy  to  him, 
but  where  she  seemed  moderately  content.  She  re 
fused  definitely  to  think  of  going  home  with  him,  and 
he  was  the  more  disappointed  in  that  he  saw  how  she 
brightened  when  he  spoke  of  her  having  Thyrza's 
company.  She  had  instantly  responded  that  Thyrza 
might  be  a  companion  or  a  secretary.  She  remembered 
Thyrza  well,  a  little  bright-eyed  girl  who  used  to  come 
with  thimbleberries.  She  was  often  very  lonely  with  her 
maid,  and  at  the  colony  they  were  all  too  intellectual. 
Barton  explained  that  this  was  her  own  charitable 
opinion ;  to  his  mind  the  colonists  were  nomadic  folk 
of  an  enthusiastic  turn  who  had  resuscitated  certain 
ancient  and  mystical  beliefs  and  dressed  them  in  new 
clothes,  to  live  by.  The  company  was  added  unto, 
as  its  sum  was  capriciously  depleted,  by  more  of  the 

146 


TROY   TAVERN 


eccentric  and  unsettled  for  whom  crude  philosophy  had 
a  charm,  and  they  seemed  to  him,  he  was  sorry  to  say, 
all  mad  as  hatters.  Helen  wanted  Thyrza  very  much. 
She  even  proposed  inviting  her  to  the  lake,  a  salaried 
companion.  That,  of  course,  her  mother  would  not 
advise,  nor  could  he ;  but  if  he  could  persuade  Helen 
to  go  with  him  to  Leafy  Road,  he  depended  on  his 
little  friend  to  be  neighborly  to  them  both. 

Thyrza  had  no  sooner  devoured  the  letter  than  she 
knew  what  was  to  do.  She  called  into  the  kitchen 
where  Mrs.  Tennant  was  mixing  bread,  — 

"  Mother,  I  'm  going  to  Lava  Lake." 

Mrs.  Tennant  let  her  floury  hands  rest  on  the  cush 
ion  of  dough  and  waited,  the  anxious  scowl  between 
her  eyes.  Thyrza  explained.  She  even  read  a  part  of 
the  letter. 

"  You  see,"  she  ended,  "  they  need  me." 

"I  don't  see's  he  says  so,"  ventured  Mrs.  Tennant. 

It  seemed  to  Thyrza  very  noble  of  him  not  to  make 
the  summons  more  direct.  She  was  exactly  like  the 
child  she  had  been  when  she  thought  of  some  de 
manding  quest. 

"  They  want  me,"  she  responded  solemnly.  "  They 
need  me." 

Mrs.  Tennant  still  failed  to  see  that  clearly,  but  she 
was  used  to  yielding  in  an  acquiescence,  not  perhaps 
humble  but  rather  matter-of-course,  while  Thyrza,  who 
had  a  larger  outlook  through  books  and  mysterious 
ambitions,  mapped  out  uncharted  ways.  She  could 
only  repeat,  "  If  you  feel  to,"  and  then  she  helped 

147 


THE   STORY   OF  THYRZA 

pack  the  little  hair  trunk  that  seemed  to  Thyrza  of 
rather  a  doubtful  and  unsophisticated  excellence  ;  and, 
in  this  great  access  of  newness  mingled  with  the  pos 
sibility  of  Laura's  coming,  felt  life  stir  about  her  in  a 
way  that  made  her  young.  Nothing  save  the  dramatic 
event  of  Laura's  exile  had  happened  for  years ;  but 
now  it  seemed  as  if  life  were  surging  about  them,  and 
as  if  her  children  were  the  ones  the  waves  of  fortune 
were  uplifted  for. 

Then  it  was  morning,  and  Thyrza  had  asked  the 
Pelton  boy  to  carry  her  trunk  to  the  station,  and  at 
three  o'clock  she  had  gone,  sitting  very  straight  in 
the  farm-wagon  and  turning  on  her  mother  a  look 
quite  passionate,  at  last.  Thyrza's  tender  heart  smote 
her.  She  wondered  now  whether  she  ought  to  leave 
her  mother.  She  had  those  choking  pangs  that  were 
always  assailing  her  for  people  she  loved,  and  the  un 
tried  world  before  her  loomed  dark  and  strange. 

"  0  mother  !  "  she  called.  The  boy  pulled  up  and 
Mrs.  Tennant  came  forward  and  laid  her  hand  on  the 
wheel. 

"  You  ain't  forgot  anything  ?  "  she  asked.  Her  face, 
uplifted  in  the  spring  light,  was  all  dry  channels,  not 
of  emotion  but  of  wear.  Thyrza  stepped  out  of  the 
wagon  and  put  her  arms  about  her  mother  and  kissed 
her. 

"Mother!  mother!  "  she  repeated,  in  a  muffled  un 
dertone. 

"  There!  "  said  Mrs.  Tennant.  "  You'll  be  late  for 
the  cars."  But  though  she  put  Thyrza  away,  her  own 

148 


TROY   TAVERN 


face  was  suffused  in  response  to  that  sudden  passion ; 
and  when  the  wagon  disappeared  at  the  curve,  she  had 
tears  in  her  eyes.  There  was  something  irrevocable 
about  the  parting. 

From  three  o'clock  to  five  Thyrza  went  on  her  un 
familiar  way.  She  was  not  used  to  traveling  and  she 
suspected  that  there  were  many  easy  habits  of  it  to 
learn  before  she  could  escape  notice  by  the  device  of 
behaving  like  everybody  else.  She  sat  primly,  to  seem 
capable  of  everything.  The  other  travelers  were  wildly 
interesting  to  her  and  yet  in  a  way  potentially  un 
friendly:  for  who  could  say  when  they  might  not  be 
gin  to  smile  at  her  country  manners  ?  The  landscape 
from  the  window  was  different  from  her  natal  ground. 
She  had  talked  about  mountains  and  valleys,  but  when 
her  mind  conjured  up  the  dry  land,  what  she  had  al 
ways  seen  was  her  own  rolling  level  near  the  sea.  But 
here  were  hills  and  the  dark  clefts  and  sweet  hollows 
between  them.  It  was  all  delicate  airy  blue  in  the 
light  and  sombre  in  shadow,  and  the  majesty  of  it 
brought  the  tears  to  her  eyes  and  a  rising  of  the  heart 
because  now  she  was  going  out  into  so  wonderful  a 
world,  and  for  so  noble  an  end.  Then  the  day  stilled 
into  quiet  before  dusk,  and  she  was  at  Troy  Junction, 
where  she  had  an  hour  to  wait.  It  was  not  so  easy  to 
her  timid  mind  to  leave  the  car  and  encounter  new  faces 
at  the  station ;  but  she  straightened  herself,  to  look 
like  an  habitual  traveler,  and  made  her  descent.  She 
crossed  the  platform  toward  the  waiting-room  and  a  fig 
ure  stayed  her.  Some  one  took  her  bag.  It  was  Andy. 

149 


THE   STORY    OF   THYRZA 

Thyrza,  after  the  first  start  of  wonder,  looked  up 
at  him  in  a  quivering  adoration.  She  was  just  tired 
enough,  just  homesick  enough,  to  feel  all  her  blood 
turn  with  a  rush  toward  the  accustomed  and  fling 

o 

herself  into  its  kind  arms.  That  it  should  be  Andy 
seemed  to  her  like  fate.  She  could  only  say  his  name, 
and  then  she  followed  him  unquestioningly  while  he 
led  the  way  out  from  the  station  and  into  a  tree-shaded 
road  where  spring  was  beginning.  Then  he  asked  her, 
with  much  interest,  where  she  had  been  going.  Thyrza 
told  him,  and  he  frowned. 

"Don't  have  too  much  to  do  with  that  fellow,"  he 
said,  after  she  had  spoken  of  Barton's  letter.  "I  never 
thought  any  too  much  of  him." 

That  had  a  sound  of  virile,  elemental  jealousy,  and 
her  heart  responded  to  it.  New  emotions  were  rising 
in  her,  and  suddenly  she  made  out  that  she  had  an 
impetuous  self  in  hand,  one  that  saluted  Andy  unhesi 
tatingly  and  called  him  master.  She  did  not  look  at 
him  now ;  yet  the  one  glance  on  the  platform  had 
snatched  a  picture  she  could  never  forget.  Andy  had 
been  walking,  and  now  he  was  flushed  by  a  pink  as 
pretty  as  that  on  a  girl's  cheek.  He  carried  his  hat 
in  his  hand,  and  a  moist,  thick  lock  of  hair  fell  over 
his  forehead  as  it  used  to  do,  Thyrza  remembered, 
when  he  was  a  boy  and  had  run  away  from  her  with 
some  of  her  treasures  until  Laura  called  him  back. 
Something  besides  the  charm  of  his  strong  presence 
inspirited  her  now;  it  was  the  pure  triumph  of  finding 
him  voluntarily  at  her  side. 

150 


TROY   TAVERN 


"Where  are  you  going?"  she  asked  at  length, 
softly,  with  a  late  curiosity.  Yet  really  it  was  only  to 
fill  up  a  pause.  To  have  him  there  beside  her  was  again 
a  fate,  not  to  be  questioned. 

"Down  to  Leafy  Road,"  he  answered  rather  ab 
sently.  Andy  was  thinking  of  a  man  who  had  just 
betrayed  him  in  a  business  deal.  When  he  met  Thyrza, 
he  had  been  cursing  the  man  in  his  mind,  and  now  an 
ugly  devil  was  still  regnant  in  him.  He  felt  destructive. 
He  wanted  to  hurt  and  slay.  Yet  it  was  good  to  see 
Thyrza,  who  had  an  impetuous  kindness  for  him,  after 
all  the  years,  and  who  looked  like  home. 

"  To  see  grandma  ?  "  she  was  asking,  still  with  that 
pretty  shyness. 

Then  he  remembered  her  again. 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "To  see  you." 

"  Oh,  I  'm  glad  I  met  you,"  said  Thyrza.  "  0  Andy, 
I'm  so  glad!" 

They  were  in  a  darkened  stretch  of  road,  with 
cedars  on  each  side,  and  at  the  thrill  in  her  voice  he 
put  his  arm  about  her  and  drew  her  to  him.  She 
looked  up  at  him  adoringly,  with  a  little  sigh,  and  he 
kissed  her. 

"  By  George  ! "  said  Andy  wonderingly,  "  I  believe 
you  do  like  me." 

"Like  you!"  she  repeated.  She  wished  he  would 
use  the  greater  word,  but  since  he  had  not  chosen  it, 
she  dared  not. 

He  was  looking  eagerly  into  her  face  like  one  who 
sought  a  gift. 

151 


THE   STORY   OF  THYRZA 

"  Say,  Thyrza,"  he  was  urging,  "  don't  wait  for 
the  train.  Walk  on  to  Troy  Town,  and  pick  up  the 
train  there.  There 's  a  tavern  at  Troy  Town.  We  '11 
get  somethin'  to  eat.  Then  you  can  take  the  eight 
o'clock." 

She  withdrew  from  him,  though  the  adventure 
seemed  delightful  to  her. 

"But  when  '11  you  get  your  train?"  she  asked. 

"I'll  wait  till  mornin'.    There's  another  one  at 


six." 


Somehow,  she  did  not  know  how,  but  entirely  with 
her  consent,  they  were  walking  quite  fast  with  long, 
according  steps,  and  Andy  was  talking.  He  told  her 
a  man  had  used  him  like  the  devil,  and  she  said,  "  Poor 
Andy!"  They  had  owned  a  claim  together,  Andy 
said,  and  the  chap  had  been  cleverer  than  he  and 
pocketed  a  thousand  of  his  money.  There  was  enough 
left  to  make  him  comfortable  as  long  as  he  lived,  but 
he  hated  to  be  done.  He  grew  morose  then.  She  pitied 
him,  and  he  told  her  she  was  a  dear  old  girl.  But  he 
spoke  absently,  and  Thyrza  felt,  with  a  pang,  as  she 
had  before  when  she  seemed  about  to  be  most  happy 
with  him,  that  his  whole  mind  was  not  with  her.  But, 
she  reflected  humbly,  it  might  be  so  with  all  men  who 
had  great  affairs  to  think  of.  She  did  not  know.  Then 
he  asked  her  a  question  or  two  about  Helen  Davidson, 
and  almost  in  the  words  she  had  heard  the  country 
people  use,  —  "  she  was  no  better  than  she  should  be." 

Thyrza  flew  to  her  defense.  A  woman  like  Helen, 
she  told  him,  was  above  society  and  above  the  law. 

152 


TROY   TAVERN 


Walking  fast  through  the  deepening  shades,  with  the 
cold  moist  air  of  the  ravines  upon  her  cheek,  she  felt 
as  if  she  were  for  the  first  time  gloriously  free,  led  by 
great  simple  certainties  that  are  above  the  world.  She 
spoke  further  in  Helen's  defense,  and  Andy  heard 
amazedly.  Now  at  last  she  had  made  him  listen,  half 
with  this  incredulous  wonder,  half  admiration  of  what 
seemed  to  be  her  foolhardy  courage. 

"You're  a  great  girl,  Thyrza,"  he  kept  saying.  "I 
never  thought  you  'd  turn  into  this  kind  of  a  girl." 

The  moon  came  out  and  glinted  here  and  there 
through  the  cedars,  and  still  they  walked,  past  farm 
houses  with  a  lonely  light  and  again  into  other  stretches 
of  wood. 

"  We  've  got  to  put  on  steam,"  said  Andy.  He  took 
out  his  watch,  and  struck  a  match.  "By  George, 
Thyrza,  there 's  your  train ! " 

It  was  shrieking  into  the  station  ahead  of  them,  a 
mile  away.  She  snatched  at  her  bag,  but  he  withheld 
it,  though  he  quickened  his  steps  with  hers. 

"  Oh,  we  must  run,"  she  cried.  "  Andy,  I  must  get 
my  train." 

"  I  'm  sorry,"  he  was  repeating  while  they  pelted 
on.  "  Honest  I  am,  Thyrza."  His  voice  rang  true,  and 
though  she  believed  it,  there  was  no  comfort  for  her 
in  anything  less  than  the  miracle  that  might  knit  up 
her  broken  journey.  He  stopped  and  laid  his  hand 
detain ingly  on  hers. 

"  No  use,  Thyrza.  There  goes  your  train." 

It  was  groaning  out  of  the  station,  and  they  heard 
153 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

it  rolling  off  into  the  night,  leaving  only  the  ghostly 
silence  it  had  overpowered.  Thyrza  spoke. 

"Well,  it's  nobody's  fault  but  my  own."  But 
though  she  drew  upon  her  old  stiff  dignity,  she 
sobbed  as  she  said  it,  and  Andy,  hearing,  was  again 
sorry  for  her. 

He  answered  soberly. 

"  We  '11  stop  at  the  tavern  an'  have  supper.  Then 
I  '11  leave  you  there  an'  in  the  mornin'  you  can  go 
ahead." 

They  walked  laggingly  into  the  little  town  and  up 
to  the  low-browed  tavern  at  the  market-square.  It 
was  gay  with  lights,  and  there  were  voices  in  excited 
chorus.  Andy  paused  doubtfully  at  the  door,  but 
some  one  opened  it,  and  they  faced  a  reeling  rout  of 
dancers,  country  girls  and  boys  at  their  gayest,  yet 
all  respectable  and  decorous,  a  "circle  "  at  its  pranks. 
Yet  it  was  the  world,  however  simple,  and  Andy, 
facing  it,  drew  Thyrza  into  the  room  and  up  to  the 
desk.  Everybody  looked  at  them.  They  were  too 
splendid  in  their  youth  and  height  and  color  not  to 
be  stared  at,  and  Thyrza,  conscious  of  her  shy  dis 
comfort,  held  her  head  high,  as  if  with  pride.  Then 
she  heard  Andy  ordering  supper  for  himself  and  — 
that  was  the  word  —  his  wife.  Immediately,  it  seemed, 
they  were  at  a  small  table  at  one  end  of  the  dining- 
room,  where  a  large  one  had  been  made  of  boards 
and  benches  for  the  dancers  to  sit  at  later.  Thyrza 
looked  at  Andy  across  the  cloth.  Her  eyes  reproached 
him  sombrely. 

154 


TROY   TAVERN 


"  How  could  you  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  was  laughing  now,  in  great  spirits.  She  had 
never  seen  anybody  so  merry  with  a  kind  of  intoxi 
cation  of  being  glad.  He  leaned  across  the  table  and 
looked  at  her. 

"You  like  me,  Thyrza,"  he  challenged  her.  "You 
know  you  do." 

"  You  make  fun  of  sacred  things  !" 

"  Do  I  ?  What  are  sacred  things  ?  " 

"That  word  was  sacred." 

But  he  could  not  remember  what  word  he  had  said, 
and  she  would  not  tell  him. 

When  the  supper  had  been  brought  and  they  were 
eating,  he  said  to  her,  with  a  sudden  earnestness, — 

"Thyrza,  you  do  like  me?" 

It  seemed  to  her  the  time  to  use  the  great  word, 
and  she  answered  slowly,  so  low  that  he  could  hardly 
hear,  — 

"  I  love  you,  Andy." 

It  was  done.  She  had  told  him,  and  now  she  knew 
he  would  tell  her. 

"What  if  you  thought  you  never  were  goin'  to 
see  me  again  ?  " 

She  held  her  lips  from  quivering. 

"It's  true,  Thyrza."  He  was  watching  her,  not 
cruelly,  nor  speciously,  but  with  an  excited  wonder 
that  a  girl  of  Thyrza's  type  could  be  so  reckless. 
"  I  'm  goin'  back  west  —  " 

"  You  said  you  were  going  to  Leafy  Road." 

"  That  was  only  for  a  day,  to  say  good-by." 

155 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

"But  you '11  go?" 

"  No.  I  lost  the  train." 

"You  lost  the  train?" 

"  Yes,  for  you.  You  made  me  lose  it.  You  were  so 
sweet,  Thyrza." 

"  Shan't  you  come  back  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  shall  come  back.  But  if  you  like  me, 
Thyrza,  you  must  tell  me  about  it.  We  've  got  to  tell 
each  other." 

At  once  she  felt  most  happy  and  most  miserable. 
The  greatest  thing  in  life  had  raced  to  find  her,  and 
she  was  in  an  ecstasy  of  union  with  the  earth,  the 
stars,  the  sky ;  only  she  was  not  content.  It  was 
like  the  sea,  rather,  an  immensity  of  unrest.  But  she 
accepted  her  tumultuous  dower  because  it  was,  she 
felt,  inevitable.  Other  women  had  received  it  with 
the  same  sad  rapture,  only,  looking  on,  one  could 
perhaps  have  said  they  were  happy  or  not  happy  at 
all.  But  in  her  perplexing  case  no  one  from  outside, 
she  knew,  could  possibly  have  told  any  more  than 
she  could  tell  herself,  whether  she  was  happy.  She 
was  simply  leagued  forever  to  unrest  and  she  must  be 
obedient  to  it.  She  looked  at  Andy  with  a  pathetic 
seeking,  and  he  saw  her  lips  tremble.  Again  it 
amazed  him.  Thyrza,  even  when  she  was  a  child,  had 
been  so  independent  and  so  proud. 

"  Yes,  Andy,"  she  said,  in  her  newly  accepted  obedi 
ence  to  him.  "  I  do  want  to  talk  to  you." 

Then  he  had  gone  to  the  desk,  leaving  her  to  sit 
there  in  an  access  of  shyness,  holding  her  head  high 

156 


TROY   TAVERN 


because  the  dancers  in  the  next  room  might  see  her 
as  they  passed  the  open  doorway,  and  yet  not  know 
ing  there  was  anything  to  fear ;  and  he  came  back 
with  a  key  and  said  to  her  in  his  kindest  tone, — 

"Come,  he'll  show  us  a  room." 

The  clerk,  too,  was  waiting,  with  a  light.  Thyrza 
rose ;  the  dancers  embarrassed  her,  and  she  was  grate 
ful  to  escape. 

"  Do  you  know  about  the  train  ?  "  she  asked  Andy. 

"Yes.  Five  o'clock/' 

"  For  Lava  Lake  ? "  She  insisted,  and  now  she 
turned  to  the  waiting  clerk.  "You  sure  there's  a 
train  at  five  o'clock  ?  " 

He  did  not  answer  for  an  instant  because  he  was 
held  by  the  look  in  her  eyes,  a  clear,  beautiful  look 
that,  one  would  have  known,  was  the  look  of  inno 
cence.  But  he  recovered  himself  quickly  and  answered 
that  the  train  was  at  five  and  he  would  be  sure  to  call 
them  half  an  hour  beforehand. 

The  room  where  he  left  them  was  a  great  square 
chamber  untouched  in  essentials  since  the  building 
of  the  house,  two  hundred  years  before.  It  had  digni 
fied  wainscoting  and  great  brass  locks,  and  a  fireplace. 

"  What  a  queer  paper,"  said  Thyrza,  struck  by  the 
soft  pink  background  and  the  spindling  flowers. 
"  Pretty,  too." 

But  Andy  had  unpinned  her  hat  with  a  deftness 
that  amazed  her,  and  then  he  put  out  the  light  be 
cause,  he  said,  the  moonlight  was  so  pretty,  and  took 
her  in  his  arms. 

157 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

"  Thyrza,"  he  told  her  roughly,  "  I  ain't  fit  for  you 
to  like." 

She  put  him  away  from  her  an  arm's  length, 
and  looked  at  him  solemnly,  in  the  moonlighted 
chamber. 

"You  are  my  prince,"  she  said,  in  a  thrilling  voice. 
"You  are  my  king." 

Andy  was  gazing  at  her  as  solemnly,  it  seemed  to 
her,  but  his  tone  was  all  amazement. 

"Thyrza,  what  a  queer  girl  you  are!"  But  in  an 
instant  he  had  put  an  arm  round  her  waist  and  drawn 
her  to  the  window  where  light  was  flooding  in, 
through  the  sparse  foliage  of  the  locusts,  and  Thyrza's 
cheek  was  touching  his  in  a  caressing  stillness.  She 
was  happy  at  last,  she  told  herself.  The  dancing  mea 
sure  of  the  violins  and  bass-viol  came  up  from  below, 
and  lifted  her  soul  on  beating  sound,  and  she  seemed 
to  discover  that  everybody  was  happy. 

"I  never  dreamt  of  this  happening  did  you?" 
A.ndy  whispered. 

"Never!"  A  thought  of  Laura  made  her  heart 
bound  toward  her  sister  in  a  great  flood  of  desire  to 
tell  her  everything:  that  she  was  beloved,  that  she 
was  going  to  be  married.  Nay,  that  she  was  married 
already ;  for  she  knew  nothing  could  be  more  sacred 
than  the  troth  they  had  plighted  by  this  seclusion, 
and  the  thought  of  Helen  Davidson,  choosing  Aer 
lover  against  a  foolish  world,  had  put  a  fighting  ele 
ment  into  her  allegiance  to  him.  She  laughed  happily 
over  the  memory  of  home. 

158 


TROY   TAVERN 


"I  wonder,"  she  breathed,  "what  Laura '11  say  !" 

He  withdrew  from  her,  and  in  the  moonlight  she 
saw  him  scowl. 

"What  is  it?"  she  trembled. 

He  was  silent,  and  then  he  asked  her,  as  if  spurred 
by  an  irresistible  curiosity,  against  his  will,  — 

"What  kind  of  a  girl  is  Laura? "  But  he  did  not 
wait  for  her  to  answer.  "What's  the  use?"  he  said. 
"I  ain't  seen  her  since  she  was  a  little  thing." 

Then  he  drew  her  back  into  his  arms  again,  and 
asked  her  questions.  He  seemed  inspired  by  a  bound 
less  curiosity  about  her  liking  for  him.  Had  she 
always  liked  him?  Had  it  lasted  since  they  were 
children,  all  through  the  time  of  his  running  away  ? 

"  Always,"  Thyrza  told  him,  simply.  Since  it  was 
love  now,  she  knew  it  must  always  have  been  love, 
for  that  was  unchanging  and  eternal.  Then,  when 
she  clung  to  her  avowal,  he  had  nothing  to  say  but 
more  wonder  over  her  queerness,  and  though  Thyrza 
was  conscious  of  a  pang  at  his  dull  words,  unlike 
romance,  she  contented  herself  with  thinking  he  was 
a  man,  and  must  speak  according  to  his  kind.  Only 
poets  could  plead  like  Romeo,  and  she  was  entirely 
conscious,  in  the  sane  certainties  of  her  mind,  that 
Andy  would  not  understand  if  she  told  him  what 
Romeo  had  said.  But  that  made  no  difference  to  her. 
His  passion  and  Romeo's  were  the  same,  and  for  her 
own  private  treasury,  one  that  could  not  be  shared, 
she  had  the  memory  of  poetic  words  to  fit  into  the 
lovely  night,  like  flowers  in  a  wreath.  He  was  telling 

159 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

her  now,  in  a  sudden  remembered  bitterness,  how  his 
crony  had  done  him,  and  declaring  nobody  could  be 
trusted. 

"Why,  Andy!"  said  Thyrza. 

He  laughed  then,  and  kissed  her. 

"I  take  it  back,"  he  said.  "Except  you,  Thyrza. 
You  're  the  top  of  the  tree.  What  would  you  do  for 
me?" 

"Die  for  you,"  said  Thyrza  solemnly,  in  her  poet's 
jargon. 

"How  long  will  you  like  me?  Say,  girl,  say?" 

"Why,  forever,  Andy!  "  She  was  half  crying  in 
her  wonder  over  his  scoffing,  and  more  and  more,  in 
spite  of  her  allegiance  to  him,  she  felt  the  strange 
ness  of  their  difference.  The  pain  of  love  had  begun, 
she  told  herself,  as  the  poets  said  it  did.  It  was  joy 
and  pain.  And  always,  in  the  sea  of  her  thoughts 
was  the  memory  of  Helen  Davidson,  who  had  elected 
to  follow  her  lover  though  she  lost  the  world,  and  of 
Tristan  and  Isolde,  who  had  died.  The  hurt  of  find 
ing  he  had  only  brief  uncouth  responses  to  the  rhap 
sodies  that  seemed  in  a  moment  sweetly  natural  to 
her,  she  accepted  like  something  she  must  bear  be 
cause  Andy  was  what  he  was.  But  he  loved  her,  and 
she  could  make  him  different. 

It  was  dawn  when  they  parted  at  the  door  of  the 
chamber  and  went  down  to  the  disordered  room 
where  the  dancing  had  been  two  hours  over.  Thyrza 
walked  calmly  now,  not  with  the  semblance  of  pride 
that  covers  shyness ;  she  felt  regnant  over  life.  Andy 

160 


TKOY   TAVERN 


paid  something  at  the  desk,  and  they  walked  away 
together.  She  had  refused  to  eat  there  with  him,  — 
why,  she  did  not  know,  and  he  had  had  sandwiches 
and  fruit  put  up  for  them  both.  While  they  were  still 
within  the  cover  of  the  cedar  trees  before  the  station, 
he  dropped  one  little  package  into  her  bag. 

"  There ! "  said  he,  "  you  can  eat  it  as  soon  as 
you're  aboard." 

Dismay  seized  upon  her. 

"Why,  Andy,"  she  faltered,  "  you  're  not  going  to 
leave  me?" 

He  laughed  a  little. 

"Why,"  said  he,  "ain't  you  goin'  to  the  lake?" 

"But  I  thought — "  She  was  confused.  She  had 
thought  that  everything  was  different,  that  his  claim 
had  cancelled  lesser  ones  and  they  should  never  be 
separated  any  more.  But  she  could  not  say  to  him, 
"I  thought  I  was  going  with  you." 

"  We  Ve  got  to  hurry,"  said  Andy.  "  Wait  a  min 
ute.  I  'm  goin'  to  leave  you  here." 

"0  Andy,  why?" 

"We  were  seen  goin'  away  from  the  station  to 
gether.  We  don't  want  to  go  back  together.  I  ain't 
thinkin'  of  myself.  I  'm  thinkin'  of  you." 

"But  Andy  —  "  She  was  the  more  confused.  Then 
they  were  not  to  be  together  —  not  yet. 

"Ain't  you  goin'  to  the  lake  ?  " 

"Yes,  if  you  tell  me,  Andy." 

He  put  her  bag  into  her  hand.  He  compelled  her 
notice. 

161 


THE   STORY   OF  THYRZA 

"Now,  Thyrza,  listen  to  me.  Your  train  will  be  in 
in  five  minutes.  You  go,  an'  do  as  you  planned." 

"Yes,  Andy." 

Her  eyes  were  brimming,  and  they  were  lifted  to 
his  with  a  look  he  had  not  seen  in  them  before.  It 
was  not  reproach.  The  look  was  gentle,  but  it  held 
the  knowledge  of  the  tree  of  life.  He  smiled  at  her 
with  an  irritating  kindliness.  Andy  wished  well  to 
everybody.  All  his  great  impatiences  came  when  he 
was  thwarted,  never  otherwise. 

"I  '11  write  to  you,"  he  promised  her.  "  I  '11  be  true 
to  you,  so  help  me  God !  " 

"  You  're  coming  for  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  of  course,  Thyrza." 

"When  will  you  come?"  she  insisted  feverishly. 

"  Soon,  soon  !  As  soon  as  I  can  manage  it.  There  ! 
I  hear  it  down  the  valley.  Kun  !  there 's  a  good  girl. 
Kun ! " 

She  took  her  bag  and  fled  along  the  road.  The 
train  came  in,  and  presently  it  was  carrying  her 
away. 


VII 

THE  KETUEN 

JL  EARS  ago,  a  syndicate  built  a  hotel  on  the  shore 
of  Lava  Lake,  and  judging,  from  a  too  impetuous 
trust  in  probability,  that  there  would  be  an  overflow 
from  this  main  building,  put  up  also  a  colony  of  cot 
tages  where  guests  should  lodge,  going  thence  to  the 
hotel  table.  That  was  when  sulphur  was  discovered, 
and  the  newspapers  had  blossomed  into  encomiums  of 
the  mountain  air  and  healing  properties  of  the  springs. 
The  air  continued  to  waft  clear  currents  and  to  uplift 
the  spirits,  and  the  springs  never  ceased  to  gush  ;  but 
for  some  hidden  reason  no  one  came  to  the  hotel. 
The  syndicate  melted,  the  hotel  itself  drifted  through 
all  stages  of  decay  and  became  a  shelter  for  picnick 
ers  and  a  lodging-house  for  tramps.  From  this  time 
it  grew  to  be  a  point  of  prowess  with  sojourners  to 
break  several  panes  of  glass  before  leaving,  and  one 
day,  some  one  bolder  than  the  rest  kicked  out  a  door. 
Then  ravage  and  decay  reigned  together.  The  French- 
ies  at  Bass  Point  came  over  to  extract  firewood  from 
its  walls,  and  the  long  winter  storms  filled  it  with  snow 
that  sometimes  lay  there  while  the  arethusa  bloomed 
outside.  Gales  from  the  lake  assaulted  it  until  its 
flimsy  frame  went  down,  and  then  raspberry  bushes 
grew  up  within  the  wide  verandas. 

Meantime  the  little  houses,  from  security  of  hum- 

163 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

bleness,  had  better  withstood  the  chances  of  decline. 
In  one  an  insane  preacher  who  believed  that  the  end 
of  the  world  had  come  and  that  he  was  living  in  para 
dise,  had  laid  his  pallet  of  grass  gathered  from  the 
pasture  about,  and  sat  all  day  at  his  door  looking 
abroad  with  a  beatific  smile,  and  telling  raspberry- 
pickers  from  the  village  that  he  saw  Abraham,  Isaac, 
and  Jacob,  and  that  their  own  eyes  were  holden  or 
they  also  could  see.  A  runaway  couple  took  refuge  in 
another  until  a  domestic  storm  should  have  blown 
over,  and  lived  on  bananas  and  biscuits  until  hunger 
forced  them  out. 

Then  the  Believers  came.  They  were  a  body  pledged 
to  mystical  certainties  which  nobody  outside  their  cult, 
they  said,  had  ever  formulated,  and  they  had  come  to 
gether  chiefly  because  of  weariness  in  a  world  where 
sects  divide  and  business  smites  and  slays.  They  were 
all  men  and  women  of  an  untidily  abstruse  turn  of 
mind,  and  of  no  mental  training.  Black,  as  it  had  been 
accepted  by  practical  dyers,  never  meant  black  to 
them.  White  was  anything  but  precisely  white.  They 
were  eager  to  think  it  might  be  the  good  purpose  of 
God  to  maintain  a  fluid  universe,  and  cause  any  ap 
pearance  to  flow  into  any  other,  to  suit  the  individual 
need.  They  had  gathered  from  popular  expositions 
of  oriental  secrets  a  vast  quantity  of  ragged  theory, 
and  accepted  it  with  a  joyous  belief  that  it  had  never 
been  transmitted  before;  and  they  wanted  more  than 
anything  else  to  be  good.  They  were  good,  —  a  set 
of  mild,  well-wishing,  industrious  creatures,  who, 

164 


THE   RETURN 


through  their  esoteric  hospitality,  had  established  a 
claim  on  the  next  world  and  all  worlds,  and  who  ate 
no  meat.  They  had,  with  much  trouble,  put  together 
a  small  sum  of  money  and  bought  up  the  cottages 
and  the  land  about  them,  and  after  honest  but  not 
always  picturesque  efforts  to  make  the  cottages  water 
tight,  had  lived  in  them,  making  homespun  rugs, 
braiding  mats,  weaving  coverlets,  and  in  other  ways 
ministering  to  the  taste  of  a  public  roused  to  the  aes 
thetic  value  of  colonial  semblances.  They  were  the 
Believers,  they  were  ready  to  tell  you,  with  a  look  of 
grateful  happiness ;  and  if  you  asked  what  they  be 
lieved,  they  would  go  off  into  rapt  reminiscences  of 
discursive  reading,  their  faces  shining  like  the  sun. 
Helen  Davidson  had  come  to  them  by  chance.  She 
had  been  suddenly  ill  when  she  and  her  husband  had 
taken  a  day's  excursion  on  the  little  boat  that  plies 
up  and  down  the  lake,  and  had  landed  to  ask  if  she 
might  spend  the  night.  The  Believers  found  her 
beautiful.  Her  elegance  contrasted  strangely  with  their 
own  tough  type,  that  had  long  left  comeliness  behind. 
Her  clothes,  also,  models  of  the  latest  wear,  fine  in 
embroidery  and  lace,  seemed  worshipfully  lovely  to 
them,  and  women  dressed  in  brown  skirts  and  dark 
blue  waists,  crowded  about  her  to  finger  her  fabrics, 
with  a  naive  curiosity.  They  were  like  savages  over 
the  first  white  man,  and  Helen  at  first  had  laughed. 
Then  she  loved  them,  they  were  so  kind,  and  gave 
away  her  trinkets  to  them.  But  these,  though  they 
held  them  sadly  for  a  moment,  they  could  not  accept. 

165 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

They  were  vowed  to  individual  poverty,  notwithstand 
ing  that  the  community  might  fatten  and  increase, 
premising,  after  a  certain  accumulation,  that  it  was 
to  spend  its  surplus  on  the  poor. 

To  Helen,  thrown  too  much  on  her  husband,  after 
her  runaway  exile  with  him  and  their  delayed  mar 
riage,  this  was  a  window  into  an  infinity  of  simple 
kindness.  She  had  left  the  world  that  scorned  her. 
This  was  another  sphere.  So  when  her  husband 
unpremeditatedly  withdrew  from  her,  because  he  had 
not  bargained  for  a  woman  who  brought  him  public 
ill-fortune  by  sacrificing,  in  the  eye  of  the  world, 
more  than  he  had  ever,  after  the  first,  besought,  she 
took  her  way  again  as  fast  as  train  and  boat  would 
carry  her  to  the  Believers  ;  and  because  they  adored 
her  and  found  her  different  from  themselves,  she  was 
allowed  to  keep  her  maid  and  merely  to  pay  board 
without  sharing  their  manual  tasks.  Here  she  floated 
on  a  sea  of  calm.  There  were  no  very  young  people 
among  the  Believers.  They  did  not  judge  it  best  to 
admit  postulants  under  thirty-five,  an  age  at  which 
doubts  and  mental  fears  might  reasonably  cease. 

Thyrza,  landing  from  the  boat  in  the  early  morn 
ing,  walked  up  the  path  toward  the  cottages  to  find 
her.  She  passed  the  ruined  hotel  where  the  raspber 
ries  grew,  and  glanced  at  it  with  a  transient  interest, 
because  her  studious  mind  bade  her  observe.  She  had 
seen  many  sights  that  day  new  to  her  untraveled 
eyes,  but  now  even  the  mountain,  its  long  wavy  line 
fretted  by  firs,  seemed  meagre  to  her.  Something 

166 


THE   RETURN 


had  dulled  her  spirits  and  eaten  up  the  zest  of  her 
challenge  to  life.  She  was  a  little  tired,  she  told  her 
self  with  some  wonder,  the  sensation  was  so  new  to 
her,  —  sad,  too,  for  she  had  left  her  lover  behind.  At 
a  steep  pitch  in  the  path  she  stopped,  with  a  momen 
tary  return  of  pulsing  vigor.  There  was  the  smell  of 
firs  hot  under  the  morning  sun ;  at  this  point,  for 
some  reason,  there  was  always  a  waft  of  it.  Here, 
too,  a  woman  met  her,  a  thin,  dry  creature  between 
thirty  and  forty,  with  brown  h'air  curled  tight  and 
twisted  into  a  knot,  a  tanned  face  and  bright  eyes. 
She  was  dressed  in  brown  and  blue,  the  uniform  of  the 
Believers,  and  her  sleeves  were  rolled  to  her  elbows, 
over  strong,  thin  arms.  Thyrza  looked  at  her  and 
hesitated  before  a  question. 

"  What  is  it?  "  asked  the  woman.  She  had  a  voice 
of  beautiful  sweetness,  so  soft  that  it  arrested  the 
mind  with  a  promise  of  something  unforeseen.  Thyrza 
drew  a  quick  little  breath.  At  this  reaction  she  sud 
denly  learned  how  homesick  she  had  been  and  how 
forlorn.  The  woman  was  manifestly  a  guide  to  hos 
pitable  things. 

"  I  want  to  find  Mrs.  Davidson,"  said  Thyrza. 
"  I  've  come  to  stay  with  her." 

The  woman  smiled  delightfully. 

"  It 's  that  cottage  up  there,"  she  answered,  point 
ing,  "the  one  with  the  ferns  along  the  front." 

She  gave  a  nod  and  turned,  and  Thyrza,  thanking 
her,  went  on.  She  kept  her  eyes  on  the  cottage,  and 
her  heart  beat  hard.  She  thought  herself  a  fool  to 

167 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

have  come  on  a  mission  of  tenderness  to  this  orderly 
place  where  life  had  been  going  on  without  her,  and 
people  like  the  brown-faced  woman  were  about  Helen 
Davidson,  ready  to  love  and  serve.  So  it  was  feeling 
very  small  and  with  no  conceit  of  herself  that  she 
went  up  the  steps  of  the  veranda  and  came  upon  a 
lady  dressed  in  white,  and  lying  in  a  long  chair.  This 
was  Helen  Davidson,  she  knew  at  once.  She  was  like 
the  family,  only  with  a  fragility,  an  appealingness, 
all  her  own.  She  had  a  pale  cheek  and  wistful  violet 
eyes  with  black  lashes  and  beautiful  dark  brows.  Her 
thick  soft  hair  was  like  a  shadow,  and  her  hands,  in 
their  white  delicacy,  like  no  hands  Thyrza  had  ever 
seen.  Thyrza  felt  a  great  timidity  and  an  enormous 
doubt  of  her  own  value  to  so  wonderful  a  creature. 
All  the  gifts  she  had  to  bring  seemed  coarse  and  use 
less.  The  lady  was  looking  at  her.  She  spoke  in  a 
gentle  voice. 

"  Did  Margaret  Petrie  send  you  here?" 

"  Margaret  Petrie  ?  " 

"  I  saw  you  talking  with  her  in  the  path.  Did  she 
send  you  ?  " 

"I  asked  the  way,"  said  Thyrza.  Her  voice  choked 
her.  At  once  she  knew  that  she,  not  the  lady,  was 
the  one  who  needed  help.  She  felt  "  wee,"  as  she 
had  once  heard  Barton  Gorse  say,  when  he  was  pity 
ing  her  after  she  had  been  ill,  and  it  came  over  her 
that  her  mother  was  not  here.  Helen  Davidson  must 
have  read  some  of  these  things  in  her  face,  for  she 
rose,  and  took  Thyrza's  bag  from  her. 

168 


THE   RETURN 


"  Are  you  one  of  the  Believers  ?  "  she  asked  sweetly. 

"  No/'  said  Thyrza.  "  My  name  is  Thyrza  Tennant. 
I  came  to  stay  with  you.  Your  brother  asked  me  to 
because  you  were  'most  alone." 

She  saw  Helen  flushing  all  over  her  face.  The 
warm  blood  made  it  bloom  out  into  a  wonderful 
beauty,  and  even  in  its  worn  loveliness  it  could  be 
seen  how  enchanting  a  girl  she  must  have  been. 

"  How  perfectly  lovely  that  was  of  Barton,"  she 
cried.  "  You  're  little  Thyrza  Tennant !  Why,  you're 
taller  than  I  am.  Take  off  your  hat.  Mary  O'Brien ! 
Mary !  " 

A  rosy  maid  appeared  from  the  room  within. 
Thyrza  was  afraid  of  her.  She  was  not  used  to  maids 
who  wore  such  white  aprons  with  a  glossy  surface. 
All  the  , domestics  she  knew  were  help,  and  it  was 
only  by  a  turn  of  fortune's  wheel  that  she  had  not 
been  help  herself.  If  she  had  not  taken  to  books 
and  inherited  the  district  school  from  the  minister's 
serious  daughter,  she  could  have  hoped  for  nothing 
more  exalted. 

Helen  Davidson  fluttered  about  in  a  happy  fever, 
putting  Thyrza  into  a  comfortable  chair  when  she 
refused  to  lie  down,  taking  her  hat,  wafting  Mary 
away  for  coffee  and  rolls.  It  was  evidently  a  delight 
to  her  to  have  a  guest  all  her  own,  and  one  decreed 
by  Barton. 

"It's  like  a  letter  from  him,"  she  exclaimed. 
"  Poor  old  chap  !  he  hated  so  to  go.  I  had  to  make 
him." 

169 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

Thyrza  sat  up  straight. 

"  To  go  ?  "  She  faltered.  "  I  thought  he  would  be 
here." 

"He's  gone  to  England.  My  uncle  wanted  him — * 
my  uncle,  Mr.  Updike,  the  author.  I  made  him  go." 

"  How  could  he  go  ?  "  said  Thyrza,  in  a  daze  of 
wonder.  She  was  breaking  through  the  crust  of  her 
timidity,  almost  to  argue  and  expostulate.  "  He  wanted 
to  be  with  you.  He  wanted  it  more  than  anything  in 
all  the  worid." 

The  color  rushed  to  Helen's  face.  She  looked  for 
an  instant  fiercely  proud,  as  if  through  memory  of 
the  arguments  it  had  taken  to  dismiss  him,  the  bit 
terness  of  using  them. 

"  I  made  him,"  she  said  coldly.  "  My  uncle  had 
written  to  me.  He 's  afraid  Barton  will  waste  his  life. 
He  wanted  me  to  use  my  influence.  I  used  it.  I  told 
Bart  I  liked  to  be  alone." 

Her  face  quivered  passionately,  but  at  once  she 
put  the  topic  by,  as  a  completed  issue,  recalling  her 
self  to  a  sweet  interest  in  the  stranger  to  whom  she 
had,  with  one  of  her  intemperate  impulses,  shown 
too  much.  Helen  was  always  doing  that.  She  had  an 
eager  love  of  companionship,  a  hunger  for  feeling 
that  she  was  understood.  It  led  her  all  lengths,  this 
temptation  to  impetuous  forays  among  her  kind,  until 
pride,  pursuing,  brought  her  back  sedately  to  her 
pathetic  state  again.  To  Thyrza  the  whole  scheme  was 
out  of  drawing.  Barton  Gorse  had  summoned  her 
to  be  a  comfort  to  his  sister,  and  she  had  responded 

170 


THE  RETURN 


in  her  old  reliance  on  him,  knowing  he  would  tell 
her  how  to  act.  She  rose  from  her  chair. 

"I  ought  not  to  have  come/'  she  said.  Then,  with 
an  involuntary  return  to  the  speech  of  her  familiars, 
she  added,  in  the  country  formula  of  those  who  end 
a  call,  "I  guess  I'll  be  going  now." 

Helen  Davidson  understood  at  once.  She  took  her 
by  both  hands,  and  put  her  back  into  the  chair. 

"No,  you  don't,  Thyrza  Tennant,"  she  said,  with 
the  old  willfulness  of  the  youth  she  had  laid  aside.  "I 
need  you  twice  as  much  if  I  don't  have  Bart.  Here's 
your  coffee,  child.  Mary,  get  a  room  ready.  Where's 
your  trunk?  I'll  send  a  man  for  it.  Now  when  we're 
quite  settled,  you  can  read  to  me." 

Thyrza  stayed.  Helen  Davidson,  in  a  way  she  had, 
made  her  at  once  at  home  and  stretched  a  place  for  her. 
Helen,  Thyrza  found,  was  one  of  the  people  whose 
charm  it  is  to  spend  an  immense  energy  on  trifles. 
They  play,  and  the  more  sedate,  looking  on  at  them, 
are  involuntarily  charmed  into  attention  by  their  ab 
sorption  in  the  game.  Helen  had  lost  all  chance  at  big 
games,  she  would  have  said.  She  was  an  unaffect 
edly  sad  woman,  her  mind  fixed  persistently  upon  a 
wayward  past;  but  she  put  an  amazing  energy  into 
the  trifles  that  had  once  beguiled  her.  She  invented 
idle  occupations,  and  pursued  them,  not  so  much  as 
if  they  amused  her,  but  as  if  they  were  a  species  of 
tribute  demanded  by  time  before  he  would  consent  to 
pass,  the  semblance  of  activity  desirable  because  life 
is  framed  on  something  of  that  sort.  A  whole  week 

171 


THE   STORY   OF  THYRZA 

she  spent  in  making  a  garden  bed,  shaped  like  a  star, 
and  planting  golden-rod  in  it.  But  it  was  on  a  rocky 
hillside  where  not  even  golden-rod  would  grow,  though 
that  left  her  enthusiasm  unweakened  when  she  found 
it  out.  She  took  three  forenoons  out  of  one  week  to 
teach  a  kitten  a  trick  no  kitten  could  do,  and  seemed 
to  be  exhaling  her  whole  soul  in  the  process.  Thyrza, 
watching,  adored  her  and  felt  dull  and  pale  beside 
her. 

At  night  they  sat  on  the  veranda,  looking  at  the 
stars  and  talking,  while  the  Believers,  in  groups  on 
other  verandas,  mulled  over  the  future  state  of  the 
soul  and  dozed  away  the  day's  weariness.  Margaret 
Petrie  was  always  with  them.  That  was  not  her  name, 
she  once  told  Thyrza  brightly;  she  had  invented  it. 
There  was  no  valid  reason  why  she  should  not  use 
her  own  name,  but  she  liked  change  exceedingly.  If 
she  could  alter  the  color  of  her  eyes  she  would  do  it ; 
her  name,  at  least,  fell  within  the  limit  of  choice. 

When  Thyrza  one  night  timidly  referred  to  her  as 
a  Believer,  she  owned  that  she  was  really  here  because 
she  liked  the  open-air  life,  the  regular  work  and  the 
mild  insanity  of  the  people. 

"I  shan't  stay,"  she  said.  "Law,  chile!  another 
winter  I  may  be  in  Washington,  in  my  wampum,  go- 
in  or  out  to  dinner  on  the  arm  of  Prester  John." 

f» 

The  summer  went  slowly,  its  steps  detained,  it 
seemed,  by  the  monotony  of  life,  and  the  middle  of 
September  was  come.  Thyrza  had  written  to  resign 
her  school,  because  she  knew,  when  she  left  Helen 

172 


THE   RETURN 


Davidson,  she  should  go  to  Andy  and  be  his  wife. 
But  Andy  had  not  written  to  her.  She  had  written 
him  many  times,  at  first  lovingly,  then  beseechingly, 
and  even  then  he  did  not  answer.  Her  mother  wrote, 
and  Laura,  too,  to  say  that  aunt  Mary  Hubbard  had 
died  and  that  Laura  had  gone  home.  After  that,  Mrs. 
Tennant  chanced  to  say  that  Andy  was  there,  and 
that  they  saw  a  good  deal  of  him.  Thyrza's  hope  reared 
its  head  triumphant.  He  went  there  because  they  be 
longed  to  her,  and  this  was  a  way  of  being  near  her. 
She  wrote  him  that  day  passionately  and  imploringly, 
and  with  an  outspoken  appeal  she  was  agonized  to 
make.  But  still  he  did  not  answer. 

One  soft,  windy  night,  with  far-off  lightnings  in  the 
sky,  the  three  women  sat  together  on  Helen's  veranda. 
She  had  been  restless  all  day,  and  now  the  inner  storm 
had  culminated,  and  they  were  conscious  that,  as  she 
sat  there,  her  face  bent  into  her  hands,  she  must  be 
crying  softly.  Thyrza  stirred  about  on  futile  mis 
sions,  fearful  of  seeming  too  cognizant  of  a  betraying 
mood;  but  presently  Margaret  Petrie  ventured,  with 
her  wholesome  candor,  — 

"Tired,  ladybird?" 

"Homesick,"  said  Helen,  at  once,  in  as  frank  an 
answer.  "Homesick!  IVe  got  no  home — and  I'm 
sick  to  death  for  it." 

"Too  bad,"  said  Margaret  Petrie,  in  a  sweet  mono 
tony  that  freighted  the  bare  words  and  made  them 
sail  like  spice  ships.  "Too  bad,  ladybird." 

Helen  drew  out  her  handkerchief  and  wiped  her 

173 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

face.  She  put  it  away  decisively,  as  one  who  has 
resolved  to  cry  no  more. 

"It's  for  Bart/'  she  said.  "He's  my  folks.  You 
know  what  that  word  means,  Thyrza.  They  say  that 
in  Leafy  Road." 

Thyrza  put  out  a  timid  hand,  touched  her  sleeve, 
and  then  withdrew  it. 

"He'd  come,"  she  said.  "He'd  come  in  a  minute 
if  you  sent  for  him." 

Her  own  heart  rose  in  an  excited  yearning  at  even 
the  thought  of  Barton  Gorse,  who  knew  so  well  how 
to  make  the  rough  places  plain.  He  meant  protec 
tion,  unfaltering  kindliness.  He  was  like  the  sun 
for  warmth  and  a  tree  giving  shelter.  He  must  not 
shield  her,  for  she  had  gone  into  another  house  of 
life,  and  she  must  not  even  tell  her  needs  to  him;  but 
it  would  be  something  if  the  tree  grew  where  she  could 
see  its  branches  wave. 

"  No,"  said  Helen,  "  no  !  He  's  not  coming  to  me. 
I  'm  not  going  to  allow  it,  Thyrza  Tennant !  "  She 
rose,  and  they  could  fancy  her  slight  figure  quivering 
with  the  intensity  of  passion  that  moved  her  voice. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  Thyrza  trembled.  She,  too,  had  risen, 
and  they  faced  each  other. 

"  You  're  young,"  said  Helen.  Now  she  was  shak 
ing  from  head  to  foot.  "  Why,  how  short  a  time  it  is 
since  I  was  young  myself !  Some  might  say  I  was 
young  now.  Why,  look  at  me  !  I  'm  shut  off  from  all 
the  people  I  've  ever  known  because  I  'm  not  like  them 
any  more.  And  it  is  n't  only  that  I  've  killed  myself. 

174 


THE   RETURN 


I  'm  finding  out  that  other  thing.  I  've  made  it  hard 
for  other  people  because  I've  done — what  I've 
done." 

One  of  her  panics  of  remorse  had  come  upon  her. 
This  they  sadly  understood.  She  slipped  away  into 
the  house,  and  they  heard  a  closing  door  above. 
These  were  the  attacks  they  had  to  accept,  from  time 
to  time,  though  until  now  there  had  lacked  this 
commentary  of  flaming  words. 

Margaret  Petrie  stood,  head  bent,  listening.  When 
the  door  closed  she  gave  a  sharp,  quick  sigh.  "  It 's 
over,"  she  said.  "  Maybe  she  '11  go  to  bed  now,  and 
Mary  '11  tell  her  stories  about  Ireland." 

Thyrza  stood  there,  all  a  rigid  horror.  At  last  she 
found  that  she  was  speaking  in  a  harsh  and  dreadful 
voice,  and  that  all  she  could  say  was  one  word,  "  Stop  ! 
stop ! "  She  repeated  it  many  times,  and  then  began 
to  shake  all  over,  and  Margaret  Petrie  put  an  arm 
about  her,  and  half  lifted  her  to  her  feet,  and  together 
they  walked  away,  down  the  steps  and  into  the  scat 
tering  woods  that  fringed  the  forest.  Thyrza  was  cry 
ing  now.  "  What  shall  I  do  ?  "  she  was  moaning.  She 
had  forgotten  Margaret  Petrie.  She  seemed  to  be  talk 
ing  to  God  and  His  angels.  "  I  must  not  tell.  You 
must  not  make  me  tell."  In  those  words  it  seemed  that 
she  had  again  remembered  Margaret  Petrie. 

Margaret  was  standing  with  both  arms  about  her 
now. 

"  Have  you  written  to  him,  Thyrza  ?  "  she  asked,  in 
her  firm  voice. 

175 


THE   STORY  OF   THYRZA 

But  Thyrza  could  not  speak.  The  very  heart  of 
-wifely  loyalty  forbade  her  answering. 

"  May  I  write  to  him?"  Margaret  was  asking,  and 
then  she  cried  out  violently,  — 

"  No  !  no  !  no  !  " 

"May  I  go  and  find  him?" 

"No  !  no  !  "  Her  mind  made  a  great  leap,  a  willful 
one,  it  seemed,  to  give  her  pain,  to  Helen  Davidson 
who  had  shone  once  like  an  angelic  creature  facing  a 
world  of  wrong.  Now,  in  the  fierce  realities  of  this 
moment,  Helen  looked  like  a  beautiful  child,  not  made 
to  front  anything,  but  to  play  a  pretty  game  with  life 
and  drop  it  when  her  toys  were  broken.  Nobody,  ex 
cept  perhaps  Margaret  Petrie,  seemed  stronger  than 
herself,  and  even  to  Margaret  she  could  not  speak, 
because  of  that  dread  vow  to  Andy,  the  unspoken  vow 
of  loyalty  till  death,  welded  as  his  lips  touched  hers. 

She  put  Margaret  away  from  her. 

"  I  must  go  in,"  she  said,  in  a  muffled  voice.  "  Let 
me  go  in." 

Margaret  followed  her,  but  at  the  steps  she  put  a 
hand  on  Thyrza's  wrist  and  drew  her  back. 

"Wait,"  she  said.  "Here,  give  me  your  other 
hand." 

She  was  slipping  a  ring  on  the  bare  third  finger. 

"What  is  that?"  asked  Thyrza. 

"It  is  my  mother's  wedding-ring,"  said  Margaret 
Petrie. 

Thyrza,  with  an  extreme  emotion  which  seemed  to 
be  a  tempest  of  shame,  and  so  unlike  anything  she 

176 


THE   RETURN 


had  felt  in  all  her  life,  put  her  hand  to  it,  to  snatch 
it  off.  But  her  fingers  stayed  themselves,  holding  it. 

"  What  makes  you  give  it  to  me  ?  "  she  asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Margaret  Petrie.  Her  voice 
had  gathered  to  itself  wonderful  complex  notes  that 
made  a  harmony.  "  It 's  my  mother's  wedding-ring. 
Good-night,  Thyrza." 

She  vanished  into  the  dusk,  and  Thyrza,  turning 
to  watch  her,  saw  her  figure  intermittently  in  the  light 
ning  as  she  went  down  the  hill  to  her  own  cottage. 
Helen  within,  her  emotion  incredibly  over,  was  sitting 
by  the  lamp  now,  a  book  of  old  French  songs  open 
before  her,  trying  them,  in  a  weak,  melodious  voice. 
Thyrza  lifted  her  arms  to  the  dark,  lightning-smitten 
heaven  and  whispered,  "God!  God!  God!" 

All  night  she  lay  still,  falling  into  abysses  of  sleep 
and  then  starting  awake  with  the  dread  of  morning 
and  of  meeting  them  again,  Helen  with  that  wild  out 
cry  ready  to  rise  again  to  her  lips  and  Margaret  Petrie 
in  her  mastering  kindliness.  Thyrza  made  up  her 
mind  that  she  must  go  away  at  once,  home  even,  to 
her  outraged  mother's  house  ;  for  there  she  would  find 
Andy.  But  in  the  morning  everything  was  different. 
A  telegram  had  come  for  her.  It  was  from  Laura. 
Their  mother  was  ill  and  in  danger.  The  telegram, 
said,  in  its  stiff  simplicity,  "  a  cold  and  then  lung 
fever." 

Thyrza  threw  things  into  her  trunk  and  put  on  her 
hat  and  gloves.  At  the  last  minute  she  ran  into 
Helen's  room  and  found  her  lying  in  bed  among  her 

177 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

laces ;  she  wore  the  absorbed  look  she  had  when  she 
was  beguiling  the  time  by  childish  occupations.  She 
had  made  a  little  mob-cap  out  of  her  frail  handker 
chief,  and  was  trying  to  fit  it  on  the  kitten's  head, 
and  Thyrza,  seeing  her  thus  intent  upon  a  foolish 
task,  felt  a  species  of  rage  at  her.  For  the  moment  it 
submerged  all  the  worship  she  had  conceived  for  a 
charm  that  was  constraining  by  its  very  childishness. 
Helen  seemed  unwittingly  to  have  failed  her.  She 
had  taken  a  forbidden  way  and  she  should  have  been 
colossal  in  it,  a  beacon,  not  a  frail  figure  stooping  to 
gather  flowers  by  the  edge.  But  as  Thyrza  said,  with 
a  roughness  born  of  her  grief,  "  My  mother  is  sick," 
and  thrust  forward  the  corroborating  telegram,  she  was 
conscious,  pace  for  galloping  pace  with  her  anger,  of 
unquenchable  love  for  Helen,  her  beauty,  her  appeal- 
ingness.  And  almost  before  Helen  could  read  the 
telegram  and  stretch  out  hands  of  sympathy  and  fare 
well,  the  whistle  sounded  from  the  little  boat,  and 
Thyrza  had  gone. 

The  journey  back  was  a  curious,  worn  duplicate  of 
her  coming.  There  were  the  same  names,  the  unfa 
miliar  types  that  had  caught  her  eye,  but  they  were 
tiresome  now.  She  felt  like  an  old  and  jaded  traveler. 
At  the  junction  where  she  had  seen  Andy  with  that 
lift  of  the  heart,  she  alighted  and,  lids  downcast, 
walked  into  the  waiting-room  and  sat  in  an  ache  of 
memory  waiting  for  her  train.  Then,  too  soon  it 
seemed,  she  was  coming  into  the  little  station  at 
Leafy  Road,  not  a  girl  as  she  had  left  it,  but  a  woman 

178 


THE  RETURN 


with  a  woman's  dreadful  secret.  And  there,  as  if  God 
had  listened  to  her  at  last,  and  had  opened  to  her  the 
gate  of  pardon,  again  stood  Andy.  He  was  beside  the 
Peltons'  farm-wagon,  and  she  knew  he  had  come  to 
take  her  home.  Thyrza  ran  to  him,  regardless  of  the 
neighbors  standing  by.  She  lifted  her  tear-wet  eyes 
to  his,  knowing  he  would  read  their  story  and  under 
stand  her  better  than  he  had.  In  a  moment  he  would 
kiss  her  before  them  all,  because  he  would  be  so  proud 
to  show  them  she  belonged  to  him,  and  there  would 
be  a  space,  if  her  mother  was  not  worse,  for  them  to 
slip  into  the  minister's  and  come  out  with  the  same 
name  and  all  the  weight  of  their  glad  promises  light 
upon  them. 

But  Andy  had  put  her  into  the  wagon,  taken  her 
trunk  from  the  station-master  with  the  air  of  one  who 
had  more  strength  than  he  knew  what  to  do  with, 
and  tossed  it  in  behind.  Thyrza's  first  question  was 
for  her  mother,  but  the  sight  of  him  made  all  ways 
so  clear  and  plain  that  she  felt  her  mother's  well- 
being  was  included  in  her  own.  So  she  could  only  say 
his  name  again,  and  then  sit  still  in  a  rapture  of 
recognition  that  sad  things  change  to  joy.  The  day 
was  all  brilliant  sky  and  a  stillness  so  great  that  no 
leaf  stirred.  Andy,  in  the  one  glance  she  had  dared  to 
take  of  him,  looked  like  a  glorious  image  of  life  that 
was  to  be  forever  young  and  strong.  The  blood  was 
in  his  cheeks,  his  eyes  were  dilated  with  an  emotion 
she  understood  as  the  joy  of  seeing  her.  Again  she 
had  the  feeling,  as  she  always  did  when  she  was  with 

179 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

him,  of  going  with  the  current,  the  great  stream  of 
being  that  would  bear  her  on  and  not  betray  her. 
They  drove  into  the  shade  of  the  pines,  and  there 
Andy  pulled  in  old  Bess,  and  made  her  walk.  She 
saw  how  masterfully  his  hands  held  the  reins,  but 
with  a  tightness,  she  noted,  not  proportioned  to  the 
horse's  pace.  At  once  she  translated  it  into  the  ner 
vous  tension  of  the  moment  and  her  coming. 

"Look  here,"  said  Andy.  He  had  meant  to  speak 
very  kindly.  If  his  voice  jarred  now,  it  was  from  des 
peration.  "That  last  letter  you  wrote  me  —  " 

"  Yes,"  she  trembled. 

"That  wa'n't  true?" 

"  Why,  Andy ! "  A  thousand  arguments  were  in 
her  answer.  There  was  nothing  she  could  say  to  him 
that  would  not  be  true,  and  there  were  sacred  things 
she  could  not  say  at  all,  unless,  as  it  had  happened 
now,  the  need  were  urgent.  The  brute  came  up  in 
Andy,  the  brute  that  fought  because  it  was  afraid, 
for  her,  for  himself  and  for  another  to  whom,  at  that 
instant,  he  was  throbbingly  alive. 

"Look  here,"  he  repeated,  "I'm  a  married  man." 

Thyrza  turned  to  look  at  him  with  a  most  innocent 
wonder  to  think  how  he  could  jest.  Her  silence 
seemed  to  challenge  him  and,  at  the  same  time,  he 
gathered  courage  from  it. 

"  We  were  married  some  days  ago,"  he  said. 
"  Laura 's  married  me." 

Suddenly  she  believed  him,  and  gave  a  cry  that 
sounded  to  her  ears,  as  well  as  his,  not  like  a  human 

180 


THE   RETURN 


cry  at  all.  She  lifted  her  clasped  hands  from  her  lap, 
perhaps  in  involuntary  prayer ;  but  while  her  eyes 
dwelt  upon  the  freshness  of  his  cheek,  the  hands 
refused  to  plead,  and,  still  clenched,  they  struck  him 
in  the  face.  Andy  did  not  move.  He  drew  the  horse 
to  a  halt,  and  they  sat  there  together,  the  still  day 
vibrating  with  a  thousand  delicate  thrills,  and  one  bird 
down  in  the  ravine  calling  three  long  notes,  as  if  by 
a  bow  upon  a  string.  Thyrza  found,  as  if  it  were  a 
snake  lurking  in  the  ambush  of  the  day,  a  wilder 
fear.  She  hurled  it  at  him. 

"Have  you  been  honest  with  her  ?  Is  she  married?" 

He  swore  an  angry  oath. 

"  Of  course  she 's  married  to  me.  Do  you  s'pose 
I'd  use  Laura  Tennant  anyways  but  fair?" 

"It's  well  for  you.  I  would  have  killed  you." 

Andy  broke  into  tumultuous  explanation,  not  as  de 
fending  himself,  but  touching  his  allegiance  to  Laura. 

"She's  always  been  in  my  mind,  Laura  has,  ever 
since  I  was  five  year  old.  When  I  went  away,  I  kinder 
forgot  about  her,  an'  then  I  come  back  an'  she  was 
gone,  an'  you  —  "  He  stopped  in  sullen  decency,  but 
Thyrza  cared  very  little  about  the  balance  of  blame. 
Later  she  could  think  of  it  and  try,  with  a  bruised 
wonder,  to  fit  her  conception  of  her  love  to  what 
Andy  had  had  to  offer  in  turn;  but  now  she,  too, 
thought  of  Laura. 

"How  long  has  she  been  married  to  you?" 

"  Less  'n  a  week,"  said  Andy  morosely.  She  was 
nearing  evidence  he  meant  to  cover. 

181 


THE   STORY  OF  THYRZA 

"  Then  it 's  too  late,"  she  brooded.  "  I  can't  ask 
her  to  leave  you  now." 

66  Leave  me !  Do  you  want  to  kill  her?  " 

Still  she  had  no  answers  for  him.  He  seemed  as  alien 
to  her  as  the  whirlwind  that  had  wrought  destruction. 
It  had  done  its  work  and  passed  on ;  she  must  repair 
a  ragged  world. 

"Less  than  a  week/'  she  repeated.  "She's  been 
married  to  you  less  than  a  week ! "  Then  in  an  instant 
a  bitter  wisdom  seemed  to  be  born  in  her,  with  the  pain 
of  suddenness.  It  made  her  cry,  "  You  married  her 
after  you  got  my  letter !  You  hurried  her  because  you 
knew  if  I  saw  her,  if  she  heard — "  The  wonder  of  it 
choked  her,  and  she  ceased. 

Andy,  looking  straight  forward  between  the  horse's 
ears,  was  answering, — 

"  I  wa'n't  goin'  to  lose  Laura  Tennant,  after  I  'd 
seen  her  again,  an'  I  wa'n't  goin'  to — "  He  stopped 
with  a  tardy  lenience,  and  Thyrza's  mind  pieced  out 
the  thought.  He  was  not  going  to  bind  himself  to  a 
woman  he  did  not  love. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  in  a  dry  voice,  "start  up  the  horse. 
We  must  get  home." 

But  Andy  did  not  move. 

"Say,  Thyrza,"  he  entreated,  "we're  goin'  out 
west  to  live.  As  soon  as  this  is  over  I  shall  take  her 
away,  an'  you  two  need  n't  ever  meet  again —  " 

"  As  soon  as  it 's  over  ?  "  she  repeated  in  a  low  voice. 
"As  soon  as  my  mother  is  dead?  Take  me  home  to 
my  mother.  Take  me  home." 

182 


THE   RETURN 


She  laid  her  hand  upon  the  whip,  and  Andy  drove 
along.  He  was  still  offering  what,  it  was  evident,  he 
had  conceived  as  fitting  for  her. 

"  It 's  a  bad  business,  Thyrza.  But  there 's  money 
enough.  I  can  settle  a  nice  sum  on  you." 

Thyrza  sat  straight  and  still,  looking  before  her. 
She  heard  him,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  her  a  person  to 
be  answered.  He  was  the  man  driving  the  horse.  All 
he  could  do  for  her  now  was  to  take  her  home.  At  the 
gate  he  spoke  again,  with  a  scared  timidity,  strangely 
contrasted  with  his  size  and  physical  dominance. 

"You  ain't  goin'  to  thresh  this  out  with  Laura? 
You  'd  kill  her.  I  don't  care  about  myself  —  I  swear 
I  don't  —  but  you'll  kill  your  sister." 

Thyrza  did  not  answer.  Before  he  could  descend, 
she  sprang  out  over  the  wheel.  And  there  was  Laura 
coming  down  the  path. 

Thyrza,  her  eyes  fixed  on  her  as  they  ran  to  meet, 
noted,  with  a  wild  wonder,  how  beautiful  she  was. 
Laura  was  all  calm  sweetness  and  ripe  womanhood. 
There  were  tears  in  her  eyes,  but  an  exaltation  also,  as 
if  she  had  known  new  raptures  and  could  translate 
present  grief  into  a  coming  tenderness.  She  put  out 
her  arms,  and  Thyrza,  running  to  her,  laid  her  head 
on  her  shoulder  and  hid  her  face  there.  She  could  not 
kiss  her.  With  some  last  sad  defense  of  honor  it  came 
to  her  that,  as  long  as  she  lived,  she  could  never  kiss 
Laura  again.  She  might  die  for  her,  but  she  could  not 
touch  her  lips.  Laura  was  saying  gently,  — 

"  It 's  over,  dear.  It 's  over." 
183 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

To  Thyrza  the  words  were  only  the  dirge  over  her 
own  sad  state,  and  she  was  answering  through  her 
shuddering,  "  Yes  !  yes  !  " 

Laura  looked  across  her  at  Andy  standing  mute  in 
fear. 

"  Somebody 's  told  you  !  "  she  said. 

Then  Thyrza  understood.  She  withdrew  from  her 
sister,  and  stood  looking  at  her. 

"Is  it  mother?"  she  asked.  "Is  it  my  mother?" 

Laura  stretched  out  her  hands  again,  and  her  face 
quivered. 

"She  went  in  a  minute,  dear.  She'd  just  been 
talking  about  you,  how  pleased  she  was  to  have  you 
come,  and  how  nice  't  would  be  to  have  us  all  together 
again  — and  Andy,  too  !  —  and  then  she  asked  me  to 
raise  her  up,  and  I  did,  and  she  died  in  a  minute.  But 
'twas  easy,  dear.  She  didn't  have  any  pain." 

Thyrza  still  looked  at  her,  and  then  her  face  broke 
and  twisted  into  lines  appalling  in  its  smooth  young 
fairness.  She  lifted  her  hands  to  the  sky  and  laughed 
out. 

"I  thank  you,"  she  cried.  "I  thank  you!  God,  I 
thank  you ! " 

"  Thyrza  ! "  called  her  sister.  "  What 's  that  you  're 
saying?" 

That  brought  Thyrza's  eyes  back  to  her  sister  and 
the  wild  impulse  passed. 

"  I  thanked  God  she  did  n't  suffer  pain,"  she  said. 
"  Come,  Laura,  let 's  go  in." 

At  the  sill  she  pushed  Laura  before  her,  and  turned 

184 


THE   RETURN 


to  shut  the  door,  lest  Andy  should  come,  too ;  but 
that,  she  remembered,  was  a  part  of  her  insanity,  and 
she  let  him  follow  them.  Thyrza  had  not  seen  death, 
and  when  she  went  with  Laura  into  their  mother's 
room  where  a  brisk  neighbor  was  busy,  she  found  in 
credible  majesty  in  the  still  figure,  and  it  calmed  her. 
The  worn  hands  brought  her  an  anguish  unspeakable. 
With  a  quick  leap  toward  remorseful  understanding, 
she  told  herself  she  might  have  saved  some  of  their 
toil  if  she  had  not  gone  so  marty  ways  in  search  of 
sacrifice.  But  it  seemed  to  her  that  now  her  only 
help  was  in  her  mother.  They  were  both  dead  to  the 
world.  She  began  to  see  how  little  things  avail  — 
the  sunlit  day,  the  bird  of  sorrow  that  broods  over  the 
lintel,  or  the  bird  of  joy  that  perches  for  a  moment 
by  the  window  and  is  gone.  The  neighbor  spoke  un 
kindly  to  her,  with  a  grudging  sympathy,  and  Thyrza 
knew  it  had  been  considered  wrong  of  her  to  leave 
her  mother  these  last  weeks.  She  bowed  her  head 
to  it. 

"  Where 's  aunt  Ellie  ?  "  she  asked,  with  a  sudden 
recurrence  of  thought  to  the  house  as  it  was. 

Laura  smiled  a  little  in  the  midst  of  her  tears. 

"  Gone  plumming  !  She 's  known  something  's  the 
matter.  She 's  missed  mother." 

When  they  had  gone  downstairs  and  Andy  had 
driven  away  with  the  Peltons'  horse,  Laura  drew  her 
into  the  sitting-room  and  there  brought  her  a  cup  of 
tea.  Thyrza  looked  at  it  with  the  distaste  she  had 
now  for  everything  that  would  help  the  flesh  to  live. 

185 


THE   STORY  OF  THYRZA 

It  came  to   her  sick  fancy  that  Andy  might  have 
bought  it. 

"  Is  that  mother's  tea  ? "  she  asked,  making  no 
motion  toward  it. 

"Why,  yes/'  said  Laura,  wondering.  "Of  course 
it's  mother's  tea." 

"  Out  of  the  old  black  caddy  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Thyrza,  yes." 

Thyrza  took  it  then,  and  drained  the  cup.  It 
seemed  as  if  her  mother's  hand  had  poured  it  for  her. 

Laura  sat  down  and  prepared  to  talk  a  little,  watch 
ing  her  tenderly  as  one  who  must  be  mercifully  used. 
She  had  fallen,  in  these  few  days  of  trouble,  in  a 
self-forgetful  calm.  Thyrza  did  not  know  how  much 
of  it  had  been  the  habit  of  her  life  with  great-aunt 
Mary  Hubbard ;  but  she  saw  that  Laura,  in  spite  of 
her  freshness,  was  no  longer  young.  There  were  fine 
lines  between  her  brows,  a  significant  tracery  where 
their  mother's  had  grown  ugly,  and  her  eyes  looked 
gravely  out,  as  if  they  were  used  to  finding  cares. 
Yet  even  on  this  dark  day  there  was  anticipation  in 
her  face  and  a  kind  of  wonder,  as  if  she  had  met 
joys  unprepared.  When  they  had  talked  about  their 
mother  for  a  time,  she  said,  with  a  beautiful  blush,  — 

"  Andy  told  you,  about  him  and  me?  " 

Thyrza  nodded. 

"  I  could  n't  have  done  it,"  said  Laura,  almost  as 
if  she  excused  herself,  "not  in  such  a  hurry.  But 
he  would  n't  take  ( no.'  It  was  the  very  first  day  of 
mother's  being  sick,  and  he  said  he  must  marry  me 

186 


THE   RETURN 


so  as  to  be  with  me  and  be  with  her.  Mother  was  real 
pleased." 

Laura  looked  anything  but  a  weak  woman  to  be 
swept  along  by  Andy's  impetuous  will,  and  Thyrza, 
studying  her  with  a  fixedness  to  understand,  realized 
that  the  woman  Laura  had  only  completed  a  troth 
the  child  Laura  had  begun. 

"  It  was  pretty  sudden,"  she  forced  herself  to  say. 

"  Yes,"  Laura  answered.  "  I  've  missed  him  a  good 
deal  all  these  years."  Again  she  blushed  sweetly  all 
over  her  face,  and  Thyrza  understood  that  she  had 
been  living  on  the  memory  of  Andy. 

Now  Laura,  gently  reproachful  of  herself,  because 
this  was  a  house  of  mourning,  had  turned  away  from 
inapposite  romance.  She  had  at  once  the  manner 
of  the  wife,  secure  in  waiting  love.  "  He  's  going  to 
stay  with  grandma  McAdam  now.  He  said  'twas 
better,  you  and  me  being  together.  I  thought  't  was 
pretty  nice  of  him." 

Thyrza  nodded,  and  realized  that  now  it  was  pos 
sible  to  eat  and  sleep  here.  But  though  that  night 
she  put  her  arms  about  Laura,  when  they  crept  into 
bed  together,  and  laid  her  head  on  her  sister's  shoul 
der  in  the  dread  certainty  that,  after  this,  there  would 
be  no  near  human  love  for  her,  she  could  not  kiss  her. 
Laura's  lips,  she  knew  again,  must  not  be  doubly  sullied. 

Next  morning  it  proved  that  Andy  had  been  called 
away  on  urgent  business.  He  might  not  be  back  for 
a  week,  and  it  was  impossible  to  delay,  even  for  Mrs. 
Tennant's  funeral.  So  the  sisters  went  through  their 

187 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

simple  rites  and  then,  after  the  neighbors  had  gone 
home,  sat  down  to  confidences. 

"  What  makes  you  watch  me  so  ?  "  Laura  asked, 
at  length. 

"  I  don't  know  when  I  shall  see  you  again,"  Thyrza 
answered. 

"  Why,  you  '11  be  right  here.  The  house  belongs 
to  you  and  me.  I  shan't  ever  touch  it.  Andy 's  got 
plenty,  and  he  '11  let  aunt  Ellie  live  with  us." 

Thyrza  was  watching  her  with  eyes  that  glittered. 

"  I  understood  you  were  going  out  west." 

"So  he  says,  but  I  guess  we  shan't,  right  off." 
Laura  spoke  with  the  easy  assurance  of  one  to  whom 
everything  would  be  conceded.  "  I  must  see  to 
grandma  Me  Adam,  too.  No,  Thyrza,  you  stay  right 
here,  and  we  '11  either  live  along  with  you  or  go  over 
to  grandma's." 

Thyrza  shook  her  head.  One  of  the  irrevocable 
things  now  was  her  parting  with  this  spot ;  yet  she 
could  not  say  so. 

"Aunt  Mary  left  us  some  money,  didn't  she?" 

"  Two  hundred  a  year  apiece  as  long  as  we  live.  I 
brought  you  yours." 

"Brought  it  to  me?" 

"  Yes.  The  will  said  the  first  payment  was  to  be 
made  right  off  after  her  death.  There  was  quite  a 
little  ready  money,  and  I  was  executor,  and  I  put  it 
in  my  pocket  for  you.  Aunt  Mary  was  queer,  but  she 
was  square.  She  said  'twas  no  use  keeping  folks 
lounging  round  a  year  or  two,  waiting  for  what  they 

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THE   RETURN 


were  coming  into.  Sometimes,  Thyrza,  I  believe  she 
never  thought  she  'd  treated  you  quite  right." 

Thyrza  was  on  her  feet,  staring  at  her. 

"Two  hundred  dollars!"  she  breathed.  "Where is 
it?" 

"It's  in  the  desk  drawer.  You  want  it  now?  Why, 
you  can  have  it." 

She  rose  and  went  to  the  drawer,  and  Thyrza 
watched  her.  Laura  took  out  a  little  roll,  four  fifty- 
dollar  bills,  and  gave  it  to  her. 

Thyrza' s  eyes  were  greedy. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "I  never  thought  such  a  thing 
could  happen  to  me.  I'm  going  now.  I'm  going  to 
night." 

Laura  was  all  a-quiver  with  hurt  wonder. 

"Thyrza,  what's  got  into  you?"  she  reproached 
her.  It  sounded  like  their  mother.  "I  should  think 
you'd  want  to  stay  till  Andy  comes." 

"  You  can  write  to  him,"  said  Thyrza.  "  You  can 
tell  him  you're  alone.  He'll  come.  Laura!  Laura! 
see!" 

She  pointed  from  the  window  at  Margaret  Petrie 
walking  up  the  path.  She  had  put  on  what  the  Be 
lievers  were  accustomed  to  call  the  world's  dress,  and 
Thyrza,  seeing  how  even  its  plainness  became  her, 
felt  a  timidity  before  her. 

"Who  is  it?"  Laura  inquired,  wonderingly. 

"Margaret  Petrie,  the  one  I  wrote  about.  0  Laura, 
if  she  talks  to  you  —  " 

But  Laura,  with  an  instant  hospitality,  had  hastened 

189 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

to  the  door,  to  let  in  Thyrza's  friend,  and  Margaret 
Petrie  was  saying  to  her,  — 

"  I  was  going  through.  I  Ve  left  the  Lake.  I  wanted 
to  ask  Thyrza  to  come  with  me." 

Her  sane  composure  had  weight  with  Laura,  and 
it  seemed  at  once  quite  reasonable  for  Thyrza  to  go. 
It  was  right  also,  Laura  owned,  to  hurry,  though  she 
did  not  learn  why.  The  wind  of  their  inexplicable 
haste  persuaded  her.  Margaret  Petrie  was,  at  the 
least,  a  beneficent  lady  who  would  conduct  Thyrza 
to  ways  of  showing  what  was  in  her.  To  Laura  the 
world  was  strange  that  day,  so  that  it  might  well  take 
any  guise.  It  was  a  world  of  love  and  death,  of  long 
parting  and  renewals.  That  her  mother  had  died  was 
anguish  incredible,  and  that  Andy  would  any  instant 
return  to  her,  all  warm,  dominating  love,  was  as  great 
a  marvel.  She  was  beside  herself  with  tenderness  and 
grief,  so  smitten  by  them  on  the  one  side  and  the 
other  that  her  calm  nature  kept  its  balance  and  made 
her  seem  unmoved  by  either. 

Thyrza's  trunk  was  sent  to  the  station,  and  in  the 
late  afternoon  she  and  Margaret  set  forth.  The  day 
was  cool  and  sweet,  and  ostensibly  because  of  that 
they  had  elected  to  walk,  though  they  had  agreed 
upon  it  tacitly  because  it  was  the  way  of  solitude. 
Laura  went  with  them  to  the  gate,  and  when  they 
paused  there,  lifted  her  apron  and  wiped  her  spring 
ing  tears.  It  was  the  very  gesture  of  their  mother, 
and  at  once  she  knew  it  and  so  did  Thyrza.  But  they 
could  only  say  good-by,  and  Thyrza,  in  the  saying, 

190 


THE   RETURN 


laid  her  head  upon  her  sister's  shoulder.  Then  she 
turned  to  go,  but  halted  and  looked  back.  Her  mind 
coursed  over  the  years  of  their  separation,  and  again 
she  saw  Laura  borne  unwillingly  away  to  be  educated 
and  learn  to  play  on  great-aunt  Mary's  Arabella's 
piano.  In  that  flash  of  inner  vision  upon  things  as 
they  are,  she  saw  that  Laura  was  exactly  as  she  would 
have  been  if  she  had  not  gone,  a  gentle  soul,  all 
pliant  dignity.  But  if  she  had  spent  her  girlhood 
happily  at  home,  she  might  not  have  gained  those  lines 
between  her  brows.  Thyrza  spoke,  from  her  ironic 
wonderment,  — 

"  Laura,  what 's  become  of  aunt  Mary's  Arabella's 
piano?" 

"  Why,"  said  Laura,  "it  went  to  the  auction  room, 
but  it  didn't  fetch  anything.  The  man  said  'twas  a 
cheap  affair  anyway,  and  it  stood  so  long  'twas  all 
rusted  out." 

When  Thyrza  and  Margaret  Petrie  were  walking 
down  the  road,  they  heard  a  sound  of  some  one  sing 
ing.  It  came  from  behind  the  big  elder-bush,  and 
Thyrza,  to  whom  it  was  a  call  of  duty,  stopped,  a 
detaining  finger  on  Margaret  Petrie's  arm.  The  song 
grew  in  shrill  volume.  It  was  "  Mary  across  the  wild 
moor,"  and  on  one  of  its  melancholy  cadences,  aunt 
Ellie,  her  little  pail  held  carefully,  came  out  from 
behind  the  elder  and  slipped  her  hand  into  Thyrza's. 

"  She  thinks  she  can  go,"  said  Thyrza.  The  tears 
were  running  down  her  cheeks,  and  she  looked  at 
Margaret  Petrie  in  dubious  trouble. 

191 


THE   STORY  OF   THYRZA 

"  She  can/'  said  Margaret  Petrie.  No  problem  was 
too  stiff  for  her.  "  Come,  Thyrza's  little  aunt.  Come 
home  with  us." 

The  tone,  the  chosen  words,  made  the  invitation 
hospitably  convincing.  Aunt  Ellie  took  up  her  song 
quite  gayly,  and  walked  with  them.  But  half  a  mile 
further  on,  she  left  them.  There  was  a  .path,  between 
cedars,  to  a  great  yellow  house.  She  sped  up  the  path, 
and  while  they  watched  her,  awaiting  her  return,  she 
knocked  boldly  on  the  door,  and  they  saw  it  open,  and 
then  close  behind  her. 

"Who  lives  there?"  Margaret  Petrie  asked. 

Thyrza  was  still  staring  up  the  path.  At  first  she 
could  not  answer.  It  had  come  upon  her  like  a  crown 
ing  wave  over  her  own  surge  of  grief  that  she  did 
not  yet  know  fully  the  extent  of  change  sprung  from 
her  mother's  death.  Even  aunt  Ellie  had  somehow 
felt  the  salt  wash  of  it,  and  was  withdrawing  herself, 
with  pathetic  logic,  from  the  home  where  it  had 
touched  her.  Thyrza  answered  slowly,  in  a  tone  of 
awe  at  all  this  strangeness,  — 

«  It 's  the  Poor  Farm." 


VIII 

THE  DISCOVERY 

JL  RETOWER  was  an  academy  seat,  with  mellow  red 
buildings,  and  greensward,  and  the  seclusion  of  an 
English  town.  Deep-toned  bells  spoke  at  hours  to  be 
observed  by  students  and  professors  in  residence,  and 
boys  with  books  were  always  walking  in  ancient  paths 
across  the  green.  There  was  one  narrow  street  of  low 
houses  behind  the  academy  buildings,  the  bank  at  its 
rear  falling  steeply  to  the  river,  and  in  one  of  the 
houses  Thyrza  and  her  baby  lived,  and  she  worked 
to  take  care  of  him.  Petrie  was  a  beautiful  baby, 
with  her  own  dark  coloring  and  a  strong  way  of 
using  his  hands  and  feet.  Thyrza  had  a  little  garden 
in  her  front  yard,  and  on  the  gate  was  tacked  a 
board  with  the  word  "  Mending  "  painted  on  it  in 
neat  letters.  She  had  lived  here  a  year  now,  sewing 
very  hard ;  and  one  day,  standing  at  her  gate  for  a 
moment,  in  the  early  morning,  wishing  more  students 
would  come  to  bring  mercifully  frayed  clothes,  she 
saw  a  woman  crossing  the  road  to  her.  This  was  a 
pretty,  plump  blond,  with  an  efflorescence  of  gay 
colors.  Thyrza  felt  the  sickening  of  her  startled 
heart,  and  the  blood  ran  out  of  her  cheeks.  But  she 
stood  still,  holding  her  small  dark  head  proudly,  and 
looked  straight  across  the  road  at  the  woman  as  she 
came.  It  was  Rosie  May  Pelton,  and  as  Thyrza  waited 

193 


THE   STORY   OF  THYRZA 

for  her,  strangely  she  could  only  think  of  the  Rosie 
May  that  was  a  little  girl,  and  of  tearing  up  her 
play-house.  She  did  not  feel  capable  any  more  of  de 
stroying  even  a  play-house.  Rosie  May,  in  her  pink 
beauty,  looked  far  more  likely  to  wield  the  master- 
hand.  She  was  calling  as  she  came,  — 

"  Why,  Thyrza  Tennant !  you  don't  mean  to  say 
that's  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Thyrza  steadily.  "It's  I.  Come  in, 
won't  you?" 

Rosie  May  was  arrested  by  the  little  sign.  "  You 
don't  mean  to  say  you've  set  up  doin' mendin'?"  she 
cascaded,  in  a  torrent  of  incredulity. 
"  Yes." 

"  Laura  said  you  lived  at  Hemenway." 
"  I  have  my  mail  sent  there." 
"  Well,  ain't  you  the  greatest  not  to  let  your  own 
sister  know  where  you  live !  What  you  s'pose  I  'm 
down  here  for  ?  " 

Thyrza  had  a  vivid  impression  that  Nemesis  might 
have  directed  her,  but  she  answered  in  the  safe  com 
monplace,  — 

"  I  don't  know." 

"Old  uncle  Dan'el  Wright  lives  along  here  some- 
wheres.  He 's  got  a  kind  of  a  junk  shop,  I  guess,  — 
old  ancient  things.  There  's  an  excursion  down  the 
river.  Did  n't  you  know  it  ?  I  promised  mother  I  'd 
run  ahead  o'  the  others  an'  hunt  up  uncle  Dan,  if  I 
had  time.  Why,  Thyrza  Tennant,  whose  baby's 
that?" 

194 


THE  DISCOVERY 


Little  Petrie  had  come,  with  slow  unconscious  dig 
nity,  to  the  door,  and  stood  there  holding  by  the  cas 
ing.  Thyrza  turned  and  saw  him,  and  her  heart 
seemed  to  overwhelm  her  in  a  rush  of  compassionate 
love  for  him,  and  pride  in  his  great  beauty.  This  was 
only  for  an  instant.  She  did  not  dare  look  at  him 
longer,  lest  tears  should  rise  to  her  eyes  and  the  blood 
to  her  cheeks,  and  engulf  her  in  what  might  look  like 
shame.  Her  eyes  were  bent  on  Rosie  May  gravely  and 
with  no  hint  of  deflection. 

"  It  is  my  baby,"  she  said,  "  my  son." 

"Why,  Thyrza  !  I  never  knew  you  were  married." 

"No,"  said  Thyrza,  in  the  same  grave  tone.  "I 
am  not  married ;  but  this  is  my  son." 

Rosie  May  had  blanched  a  little  under  the  bloom 
of  her  cheek.  She  stood  staring,  her  pretty  lips  vac 
uously  parted. 

"  Well !  "  she  breathed. 

There  were  voices  in  the  distance,  and  she  turned 
with  an  evident  relief. 

"  There  they  are,  lots  of  folks  from  home.  Laura 's 
there,  too.  I  forgot  to  tell  you." 

"Laura!  "  Now  Thyrza's  voice  broke  with  the  an 
guish  of  terror.  "  Where  is  Laura  ?" 

"Why,  it's  an  excursion  an'  we  said  we'd  go. 
Andy  would  n't,  so  Laura  said  she  'd  come  with 


me." 


For  a  minute  the  world  was  black  before  Thyrza, 
and  she  caught  at  the  fence-post  to  steady  her 
self.  There  was  one  sustaining  certainty  to  draw  her 

195 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

from  her  threatened  swoon  :  Laura  must  not  hear  ill 
news  of  her  from  Rosie  May.  She  saw  the  group  of 
people  coming,  all  in  holiday  dress,  carrying  baskets 
of  luncheon  and  paper  bags  filled  with  fruit  bought 
by  the  way.  They  were  talking  fast  and  laughing, 
and  those  in  the  van  turned  to  call  back  gibes  to  the 
rear.  It  sounded  as  if  they  had  formed  a  compact  to 
keep  a  concerted  pitch.  Their  gayety  filled  Thyrza 
with  sad  wonderment.  It  seemed  amazing  that  men  and 
women  should  behave  like  children  in  a  dark  world 
honeycombed  with  pitfalls  to  engulf  them.  As  they 
neared  she  heard  herself  crying,  "  Laura !  Laura ! " 
and  then  a  tall,  lovely  Laura  detached  herself  from 
the  group  and  came  running  forward.  Others  came, 
too,  exclaiming  that  it  was  Thyrza  Tennant ;  but  she 
shut  the  gate  in  their  faces  and  in  the  face  of  Rosie 
May,  and  drew  Laura  up  the  path.  Laura,  in  her  sur 
prise  and  pleasure,  only  threw  a  gay  good-by  to  the 
others  and  the  wondering  explanation  that  she  had 
found  her  sister,  and  then  the  two  were  at  the  step, 
and  Petrie  stood  there  facing  them.  Laura  stooped 
and  drew  him  to  her. 

"  No  !  no  !  "  Thyrza  bade  her.  "  You  must  n't  touch 
him.  Come  in  with  me."  She  led  her  sister  past  the 
little  creature,  and  in  the  sitting-room  they  faced  each 
other. 

Laura  looked  at  her  sister  with  wonder  and  a  name 
less  apprehension.  In  the  delight  of  their  meeting, 
she  had  been  about  to  kiss  her,  but  Thyrza  looked 
strange  and  forbidding  to  her,  and  she  dared  not. 

196 


THE  DISCOVERY 


"The  child  is  mine/'  said  Thyrza,  in  a  harsh  voice. 
"  I  've  just  told  Rosie  May." 

Still  Laura  looked  at  her  from  those  wide  beautiful 
brown  eyes.  Thyrza,  with  a  sickening  attention,  noted 
every  detail  of  her  dress,  the  rich  pin  at  her  throat, 
the  newness  of  her  gloves.  Laura,  she  saw,  was  pros 
perous,  and  if  it  could  be  judged  from  the  soft  cheek, 
the  sweetly  curving  mouth  and  the  untroubled  eyes, 
she  was  happy.  A  deadly  caution  bade  her  remember 
to  take  heed  and  keep  her  so. 

A  shade  of  hurt  wonder  flickered  into  Laura's  face. 

"  Why,  Thyrza,"  she  began,  "  you  never  told  me." 

It  was  the  old  question,  Thyrza  knew,  —  the  one 
Rosie  May  had  asked,  the  one  the  doctor  and  the 
minister  had  innocently  implied :  her  marriage.  She 
shook  her  head,  as  if  she  could  not  be  swift  enough 
in  her  repudiating. 

"  This  is  my  child,"  she  said.  "  He  has  n't  any 
father.  Won't  you  understand  ?  I  'm  not  married, 
Laura.  I  never  was.  I  never  shall  be." 

Laura  turned  on  her  heel,  with  a  swift  whirl  of  her 
pretty  skirts.  She  walked  to  the  window  and  stood 
there  a  second.  When  she  turned  back  again,  her 
cheeks  were  scarlet,  and  rage  was  in  her  tender  eyes. 

"  Oh,  if  I  told  him  !  "  she  cried  in  a  choking  voice, 
"if  I  told  Andy,  I  believe  he'd  kill  him." 

"No!  no!  no!"  Thyrza  heard  herself  saying. 
"  Don't  tell  him.  He  must  n't  know." 

"  She  '11  tell  him,"  said  Laura  hotly.  «  Rosie  May. 
She  '11  tell  every  soul  that  ever  see  you.  Oh  !  "  It  was 

197 


THE   STORY   OF  THYRZA 

a  cry  all  hurt  and  bleeding  tenderness.  She  held  her 
arms  out.  Laura  was  not  a  woman  of  outspoken  pro 
testations  and  free  caresses.  Now  her  voice  had  melo 
dious  calls  in  it,  mother-notes  Thyrza  had  never 
heard  there.  "  Come  here  to  me,"  she  was  crying. 
"  Oh,  come  to  me,  you  dear,  you  darlin'  dear ! " 

In  a  moment  she  was  in  Thyrza's  low  sewing-chair, 
and  Thyrza,  at  her  feet,  had  bent  her  head  on  Laura's 
knee  and  was  crying,  crying,  in  a  great  wondering  hap 
piness  that  she  could  shed  such  tears  as  these.  "  Come 
up  here,"  Laura  was  saying,  "  so  's  I  can  kiss  you." 

"  No  !  no  !  "  Thyrza  moaned.  "  You  must  n't  ever 
ask  me,  Laura.  I  must  n't  ever  kiss  you  again — nor 
anybody,"  she  added  in  quick  craftiness,  lest  Laura 
should  ask  why. 

But  Laura  thought  she  understood  how  a  woman 
to  whom  the  semblance  of  love  had  been  her  undoing 
should  swerve  away  from  all  its  currency. 

"  You  kiss  him,"  she  said  coaxingly.  "  You  kiss  the 
little  boy." 

"  Oh,  yes !  "  said  Thyrza,  from  her  sad  abandon 
ment.  "  I  kiss  him.  But  we  're  in  one  world,  he  and 
I.  We  're  dead  in  your  world,  Laura.  We  're  in  our 
own  world  together.  Sometimes  it 's  heaven,  but  when 
he  grows  up,  it'll  be  my  hell." 

But  Laura  had  a  simple  mind,  and  imagery  meant 
very  little  to  her. 

"You  needn't  kiss  me  till  you  feel  to,"  she  said. 
"I'll  hug  you  though  ;  I  'm  going  to  hug  him,  too,  in 
a  minute.  He's  sweet  pretty,  dear." 

198 


THE   DISCOVERY 


Thyrza  sat  up,  there  at  her  feet,  and  lifted  a  tear- 
disfigured  face  to  look  at  her.  She  had  never  known 
Laura,  she  saw.  Laura  was  a  good  woman,  according 
to  all  the  world's  requirements.  She  was  a  sane,  stern 
woman,  too.  She  could  not  have  walked  into  the  bog 
that  looked  a  blossomy  path  to  Thyrza.  She  would 
have  seen  the  oily  waters  underneath.  Yet  Laura  was 
regarding  her  with  clear,  tender  eyes,  and  treating 
her  as  if  she  were  a  young  mother  who  had  not  stolen 
her  child. 

"  I  shall  feel  terribly  if  I  never  have  any  myself," 
she  was  saying.  "  And  somehow  I  don't  believe  I 
shall."  A  shade  of  pathos  veiled  her  face,  deepening 
its  tenderness.  Little  Petrie,  in  the  doorway,  catching 
at  sunbeams,  began  to  sing  himself  a  song  new  as 
to  time  and  language.  "  Now  ain't  that  sweet?" 

Thyrza  looked  up  at  her  in  a  kind  of  worship. 
Laura,  instead  of  herself,  seemed  to  be  motherhood, 
the  motherhood  that  leans  and  listens  for  all  children's 
crying.  But  Laura  had  left  brooding  over  Petrie  and 
flown  back  to  her. 

"Now  you've  got  to  come  home  with  me,"  she 
was  saying.  "  Not  to-day,  though.  I  '11  see  Andy 
first.  But  he '11  be  willing.  He '11  be  glad.  I '11  make 
him." 

Thyrza  could  put  that  aside  for  an  after-moment's 
refusal.  The  first  great  wonder  had  to  be  fathomed 
now. 

"  Laura ! "  she  spoke  timidly.  "  You  don't  seem  to 
treat  me  as  if  I  was  —  different." 

199 


THE   STORY   OF  THYRZA 

Laura  stooped  and  put  her  two  firm  hands  on 
Thyrza' s  shoulders. 

"  Darlin',"  she  said,  "  there  ain't  ever  any  blame 
going  to  be  betwixt  you  and  me.  There  ain't  anything 
you  could  do  would  ever  make  me  set  by  you  less,  nor 
ask  you  a  question  unless  you  felt  to  tell  me.  You 
could  n't  tell  me,  darlin',  could  you  ?  " 

"  No  ! "  said  Thyrza.  Her  voice  rang  dreadfully 
against  her  sister's  pleading.  "  No!  no  !  " 

"  I  don't  mean  tell  me  who  he  is.  Of  course  I  know 
that,  dear.  Of  course  I  know  !  But  why  he  should  n't 
marry  you  !  He  liked  you  awfully." 

Thyrza  came  to  her  feet,  and  stood  staring  at  her 
sister.  Her  breath  came  pantingly. 

"You  know,  Laura?"  she  whispered.  "How  can 
you  say  you  know?" 

"  He  was  always  terrible  fond  of  you,"  Laura  went 
on,  lost  now  in  her  own  yearning  to  set  the  matter 
right.  "He  never 'd  have  given  you  lessons  all  that 
time,  and  sent  you  books  and  all.  Of  course  he  liked 
you,  dear." 

Thyrza  gave  a  little  cry. 

"  You  must  not  think  it,  Laura,  not  for  a  minute, 
not  a  second!  Why,  he's  the  best  man  — "  The 
thought  of  Barton  Gorse,  all  tender  chivalry,  choked 
her,  and  she  could  not  go  on.  He  seemed  to  her  now, 
using  her  sad  knowledge  of  what  man  might  be,  with 
out  passions  and  so  without  cruelty. 

Laura  was  smiling  at  her  in  a  beautiful  way. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  she  said.  "  You  want  to  cover  him. 
200 


THE  DISCOVERY 


I  don't  blame  you.  I  should  if  't  was  somebody  I  set 
by  so  —  if  't  was  Andy,  though  that  —  "  She  bit  the 
word  off  in  quick  compunction ;  but  Thyrza  knew 
she  was  about  to  say,  —  "  though  that  could  n't  be." 
An  insane  impulse,  the  extreme  of  nervous  emotion, 
swept  over  her.  She  forgot  Laura  whom  she  might 
kill,  and  forgot  herself,  who  seemed  to  be  already 
dead,  and  remembered  only  the  bitter,  irrevocable 
fact.  "  It  is  Andy  !  "  she  wanted  to  cry.  t(  It 's  Andy ! 
your  Andy  !  "  In  a  moment  she  passed  her  hand  over 
her  blurred  vision  and  asked  Laura,  "  Have  I  said 
anything?  " 

"  No,"  Laura  was  answering,  in  that  brooding 
mother-voice,  "  not  a  word,  dear.  Nor  you  need  n't. 
Only  if  you  'd  tell  me  where  he  is  now,  maybe  Andy 
and  I  could  do  something.  Andy  would  go  to  the 
world's  end  after  him.  A  man  knows  what  to  say  to  a 


man." 


"  Then,"  said  Thyrza,  "  listen.  Nobody  shall  go  for 
me.  Nobody  shall  speak  for  me.  I  speak  for  myself. 
I  speak  every  day.  I  speak  to  God.  I  say,  (  Help  me 
bring  up  the  child.'  That 's  all.  If  you  set  folks  on 
my  track,  Laura,  you  '11  kill  me.  You  '11  murder  me." 

She  had  always  dominated  Laura  in  a  way,  but  now 
it  was  the  pathos  of  her  anguish  and  not  her  will 
that  gave  her  power.  Laura,  too,  rose  and  gently 
took  her  hands. 

"  Nobody  's  going  to  hurt  you,  darlin'  dear,"  she 
said.  "  Now  le  's  see  the  baby." 

Little  Petrie,  having  at  that  moment  finished  his 
201 


THE   STORY    OF   THYRZA 

most  pressing  affairs  with  the  sunshine,  came  stag 
gering  past  in  pursuit  of  the  cat's  tail,  inexplicably 
withdrawn  whenever  he  faltered  toward  it.  Laura 
took  him  up  and  sat  with  him  on  her  knee,  babbling 
to  him  in  a  foolish  language,  and  to  Thyrza  about 
his  feet  and  petticoats.  All  that  forenoon  they  sat, 
busy  with  the  talk  of  happy  matrons,  and  no  word 
was  said  to  break  the  bubble  of  content.  As  the 
afternoon  slipped  on,  Laura  said  falteringly  that  per 
haps  she'd  better  not  wait  for  the  boat-folks.  She 
might  take  an  earlier  train.  Thyrza,  in  her  turn, 
hesitated. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  at  last.  "  If  you  feel  to." 

Each  knew  what  was  in  the  other's  mind.  Rosie 
May  would  have  told  all  the  neighbors  how  she  had 
found  Thyrza  Tennant,  and  if  Thyrza  and  Laura 
were  to  meet  their  trouble  with  courage,  they  must 
seek  it  eagerly. 

"  Well,"  concluded  Laura,  "maybe  I'd  better  go 
back  with  them.  I  '11  be  ready  when  they  come 
along." 

There  were  things  not  to  be  spoken  :  Thyrza's  cry 
ing  sense  that  she  could  not  be  permitted  to  carry 
her  shame  alone,  but  that  Laura  must  bear  some  part 
of  it  with  her,  and  Laura's  longing  to  lift  all  the  load 
she  might,  yet  knowing  Thyrza's  share  of  it  could 
not  be  lightened.  When  the  mid-afternoon  came, 
Laura  pinned  on  her  hat,  and  they  put  their  arms 
about  each  other  again,  though  they  did  not  kiss. 
Laura  had  tenderly  refrained  from  offering  it.  Then 

202 


THE  DISCOVERY 


she  went  out  to  the  gate  and  waited,  and  Thyrza 
stood  in  the  doorway,  the  child  upon  her  arm,  in  the 
old  attitude  of  motherhood.  In  spite  of  her  slender- 
ness,  her  steadfast  pose  made  her  majestic,  and  the 
group  of  people  in  the  rear  of  the  excursion  crowd 
looked  up  at  her  silently,  though  none  of  them  could 
speak.  It  was  not  because  they  were  condemning  her, 
but  because  the  strangeness  of  it  all  had  wrought 
upon  them. 

There  was  to  be  another  encounter  at  the  gate.  A 
man  walking  rapidly  and  meeting  the  crowd  had 
stopped  to  speak  to  Laura,  but  she,  Thyrza  could 
see,  brushed  by  with  what  looked  like  a  sudden  in 
voluntary  scorn  of  him,  and  joined  her  party.  He 
came  up  the  path.  It  was  Barton  Gorse,  and  he  was 
deeply  changed  from  the  man  Thyrza  knew.  He 
looked  more  than  the  two  years  older,  and  his  face 
had  sharpened  to  an  edge,  as  if  he  had  suffered,  and 
indeed  was  suffering  still,  and  might  break  under  it. 
His  eyes  were  all  a  beseeching  fire.  She  did  not  alter 
her  position,  though  an  inward  terror  urged  her  to  put 
down  the  child.  It  seemed,  for  some  hidden  reason, 
that  she  must  stand  there  holding  her  boy  and  wait 
ing  for  Barton  Gorse  to  come.  He  saw  what  to  do, 
as  he  had  always  seen  it  for  her,  and  took  her  by  the 
elbow  and  turned  her  gently. 

"  Come  in,  Thyrza,"  he  said.  He  sounded  breath 
less.  "  Put  him  down.  For  a  minute,  only  a  minute. 
I  must  talk  to  you." 

They  were  facing  each  other  in  the  little  room,  as 

203 


THE   STORY  OF   THYRZA 

she  and  Laura  had  stood,  and  Petrie,  always  the 
busiest  of  men,  was  off  on  another  fruitless  trip  for 
the  trophy  of  a  furry  tail.  At  first  Barton  could  only 
look  at  her.  He  did  not  speak.  Her  eyes  were  drawn 
to  his,  and  she  felt  how  strange  her  face  must  look, 
in  its  mask  of  pain. 

"Dear  child!"  said  Barton  Gorse.  "0  my  dear 
child!" 

He  had  never  been  outspoken  to  her  before,  —  a 
little  humorous,  full  of  quaint  sayings  and  abusive 
praise  and  an  emphatic  blame  that  was  also  a  kind  of 
commendation.  Thyrza' s  lip  trembled  a  little,  but  she 
faced  him  bravely,  as  if  she  offered  the  betrayal  of  her 
eyes  to  him  to  make  of  it  what  he  might.  He  was 
continuing. 

"  I  came  home  to  see  you.  Sit  down,  dear  child. 
Let  me  sit  down.  Thyrza,  I  found  Margaret  Petrie  in 
London.  She  told  me  things." 

"  Yes,"  said  Thyrza,  with  a  miserable  acquiescence. 
"  She  should  not  have  told  you." 

"She  had  to.  We  talked  about  you  and  somehow 
—  she's  very  sympathetic.  She  gets  things  out  of 
you  —  I  let  her  see  I  loved  you.  So  she  had  to  tell 


me." 


Thyrza's  eyes  were  fixed  on  him  now  in  wide  amaze 
ment.  Shyness  was  over  for  her.  The  little  creature  in 
the  next  room  was  her  eternal  witness  that  girlish 
tremblings  had  gone  from  her  forever.  Barton  was 
sitting  bent  in  his  chair,  dangling  his  hat  iu  his  hands. 


o 

and  looking  at  it  as  he  talked. 

204 


THE    DISCOVERY 


"  You  see,  dear,  I  must  have  always  loved  you.  But 
I  knew  I  was  no  sort  of  a  fellow  to  ask  any  woman 
to  be  kind  to  me  —  " 

"  You  !  "  said  Thyrza  bitterly. 

"I've  got  a  nasty  heart.  You  didn't  know  that. 
It  keeps  me  pretty  soft,  a  kind  of  a  Miss  Nancy,  a 
Willy  boy,  you  know.  I  'm  not  quoted  in  the  market. 
I'm  damaged  goods.  So  when  I  got  fond  of  you,  I 
knew  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  tuck  it  away  in 
the  attic  with  other  things,  West  Point  and  such.  But 
when  she  told  me  that,  I  had  to  come." 

"From  England?"  asked  Thyrza,  wondering.  She 
thought  very  seriously  of  ocean  voyages  and  the  image 
of  the  rushing  ship  and  the  full  sails  —  it  had  sails 
because  the  ships  in  poetry  always  had  —  pervaded  her 
mind  to  overflowing. 

"Yes.  I  left  uncle  Terry  in  the  lurch.  I  didn't 
stop  to  see  Helen.  I  came  for  you,  dear,  to  ask  you 
to  marry  me  and  go  back  with  me,  to  Italy,  to  England. 
Come  ! " 

Thyrza  shook  her  head  dumbly.  The  tears  were 
standing  in  her  eyes.  He  began  again,  in  the  same 
haste. 

"  You  might  wonder  why  I  ask  you  now,  when  I 
didn't  before.  I  haven't  been  able  to  get  a  new  heart 
and  I'm  still  a  mollycoddle.  Well,  it 's  that  little  fel 
low,  dear."  He  jerked  his  thumb  toward  the  kitchen, 
where  Petrie  was  declaiming  over  the  geranium  he  had 
denuded  of  its  bloom.  "  You  '11  have  an  awful  time 
bringing  him  up.  I  could  help,  though  I  'm  not  much 

205 


THE    STORY   OF   THYRZA 

good.  It'll  be  better  for  him  in  every  way-  '  he 
stumbled  a  little  there,  and  his  mouth  twitched  — 
"  Say  yes,  dear,  and  come.  I  could  n't  begin  to  tell 
you  how  I  should  feel  —  proud,  chiefly.  Happy,  too, 
but  most  infernally  proud." 

Thyrza  had  to  adjust  herself  to  this  new  idea  of 
him  before  she  could  even  consider  it  as  something 
within  her  own  radius  of  light.  From  the  beginning 
of  their  acquaintance  he  had  been  a  beneficent  crea 
ture  entirely  removed  from  her  by  his  knowledge 
and  his  birth.  The  shadow  of  a  great  roof  as  com 
pared  with  her  humble  one  had  been  over  him 
from  the  first.  She  could  never  have  thought  of 
Judge  Gorse's  grandson  in  relation  to  herself,  save 
as  conferring  benefits.  But  he  was  asking  her  to 
marry  him  and  he  was  making  it  very  much  of  a 
condescension  from  her.  She  had  lost  all  her  worldly 
status,  and  he  was  begging  her  to  stoop. 

"Do  you  mean  you  want  to  marry  me  —  for  him?" 
She  pointed  a  forefinger  at  the  other  room. 

The  things  the  child  had  meant  to  Gorse  came 
crowding  back  upon  him  now,  and  he  could  not  quite 
assent.  Since  Margaret  Petrie  had  told  him  this  invio 
late  shrine  had  been  defiled,  though  she  could  not 
tell  the  manner  of  it,  he  had  been,  in  London  and  on 
his  voyage,  overwhelmed  by  the  onslaught.  The  child 
had  seemed  to  him  only  the  horrible  witness  to  what 
Thyrza  had  suffered,  and  if  he  could  have  heard  of 
his  death  he  must  have  thanked  God.  Without  the 
child  she  could  be  rescued  from  her  miserable  lot. 

206 


THE   D  i  sco VERY 


With  him,  unless  she  accepted  what  he  offered  her 
with  a  quicker,  stronger  grasp  than  he  believed  she 
would,  it  might  be  hard  to  build  up  her  house  again. 
He  was  trying  to  be  hopeful.  But  the  child,  this  alien 
offspring  of  a  man  more  dreadful  to  him  because  he 
was  nameless,  a  monster  that  had  come  out  of  the 
dark  for  the  slaying  of  innocence, — no,  he  could 
not  say  he  wished  well  to  the  child.  It  must  share, 
for  the  present,  in  his  horror  of  the  unknown  father. 
So  he  answered  humbly,  conscious,  through  his  mis 
erable  jealousy,  that  Thyrza's  love  for  the  little  crea 
ture  would  start  back  aghast  if  he  told  her  he  felt 
only  hatred. 

"No,  Thyrza.  It's  not  for  his  sake.  I  want  you 
for  my  own.  But  I  use  him  for  an  argument,  and  I'll 
be  square  with  him." 

She  sat  with  her  hands  clasped  on  her  knees,  look 
ing  through  the  window  over  the  little  garden  at  the 
river  where  academy  boys  were  at  their  practice,  and 
some  on  the  shore,  watching  or  training  them,  were 
calling  back  and  forth.  It  was  all  youth  and  May. 
Barton  looked  at  her  while  she  sent  her  absent  gaze 
so  far  into  the  possibilities  of  things.  He  could  study 
her  face  and  muse  bitterly  on  his  carelessness  in  not, 
in  some  way,  seeing  that  his  lamb  was  in  shelter 
before  he  left  her  to  the  wolf.  But  who  could  have 
thought  she  would  not  be  defended,  if  not  by  her 
austere  maiden  instincts,  by  the  simple  innocence  of 
her  life?  That  he  could  not  pursue  any  great  dis 
tance  without  the  madness  coming  on  him  again,  and 

207 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

he  put  it  away,  to  muse  on  the  dignity  and  beauty  of 
her  presence  under  the  added  bloom  he  would  not 
recognize  of  sad,  yet  happy  motherhood.  Her  eyes 
came  back  to  him.  They  were  wonderfully  lighted 
from  some  soft  fire  within. 

"  No,"  said  Thyrza,  "  I  can't  ever  do  it." 
"You  don't  care  about  me,  of  course.  But  it's 
possible,  Thyrza,  it  would  be  best  for  you  to  marry 
me,  even  if  — "  He  paused  because  there  was  no 
word  gentle  enough  to  tell  her  their  union  might  be  a 
hard  task  they  must  essay  together,  since  she  would 
suffer  so  incredibly  if  she  were  to  fight  alone.  She 
was  speaking  bitterly. 

"I  guess  I  don't  know  what  love  is."  Then  her 
face  flamed  all  over,  and  a  river  of  angry  light  seemed 
rushing  from  her  eyes.  "  But  I  know  what  hate 


is." 


He  was  glad.  At  once  he  felt  almost  like  a  con 
queror.  If  she  had  no  allegiance  to  the  vanished  trai 
tor,  as  Margaret  Petrie  assured  him  she  believed,  one 
path  was  clear  to  his  own  claims.  She  turned  to  him 
with  a  movement  of  entire  self-abandonment.  He  felt 
that  she  was  resigning  herself  to  her  confidence  in 
him  and  trembled  before  what  she  might  say.  He 
could  anticipate  the  passion  of  it.  But  she  spoke  with 
perfect  self-control. 

"I  feel  differently  about  —  love;  I  feel  differently 
about  marriage." 

He  could  understand  why  well  enough,  but  it  was 
best  to  say,  with  his  old  humorous  smile  at  her,  — 

208 


THE   DISCOVERY 


"  We  mustn't  think  there  are  n't  splendid  marriages, 
because  some  of  them  go  under." 

"Laura  is  married/'  she  answered,  as  if  she  stated 
some  incredible  fact  her  mind  refused  to  grasp. 

"  I  know.  She  married  Andy,  did  n't  she  ?  " 

"Yes."  Thyrza  had  an  instant  then  for  wonder 
ing  why  her  eyelids  did  not  flicker  even  if  her 
lips  were  loyal  to  her.  She  had  no  fear.  The  fate 
of  so  many  worlds  hung  on  her  silence  that  she  knew 
it  could  be  kept.  If  Andy  were  there  in  the  room, 
the  thought  that  she  held  Laura's  dear  soul's  happi 
ness  in  her  hands  would  have  kept  her  cheek  from 
blanching.  But  she  roused  herself.  She  even  smiled 
at  him. 

"  It 's  so  queer,"  she  said,  "to  be  talking  to  you  as 
if  we  were  the  same  age." 

"I'm  not  so  old,  Thyrza,"  he  answered,  with  a 
pang. 

"  No,  oh,  no  !  But  you  see  you  Ve  seemed  different 
from  anybody  to  me  because  you  were  my  teacher. 
I  never  should  have  dreamed  of  —  " 

"Of  my  asking  you  to  marry  me?  Well,  it  is  a  lib 
erty.  I  've  tried  not  to,  but  you  see  I  really  want  you 
very  much." 

His  kind  voice  made  all  things  possible.  It  was  the 
voice  of  his  prophesying  that  if  she  read  her  Virgil  at 
that  rate,  she  'd  have  no  trouble  in  taking  her  degree 
at  any  college.  For  an  instant  she  wondered  if  it  were 
credible  that  life  could  be  smoothed  like  that.  Could 
paths  be  made  so  easy  by  these  flooding  rose-leaves 

209 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

that  might  be  forgiveness,  even  if  nothing  now  must 
be  called  love  ?  Her  brows  contracted.  She  seemed  to 
be  frowning  over  thought. 

"  What  is  it,  Thyrza?"  he  ventured  to  ask  her. 

She  could  not  tell  him.  What  was  the  feeling  that 
had  made  her  meet  the  other  man's  hideous  passion 
with  a  rush  of  adoring  acquiescence  and  now  left  her 
stranded  on  the  barren  shore  of  hatred  for  all  emotion 
masking  under  that  name  ?  The  hardest  part  of  her 
daily  suffering,  harder  even  than  the  general  con 
tumely,  was  her  hatred  of  Andy.  If  she  could  feel 
that  she  loved  him,  that,  in  spite  of  Laura's  possession 
of  him,  she  could  cling  to  some  dread  allegiance,  she 
thought  she  could  have  found  one  of  the  approaches 
to  an  austere  content.  But  Andy  had  seemed  a  god 
to  her,  and  now  he  was  a  beast.  Not  that,  even :  she 
was  more  just  to  him.  He  was  a  man  whom  nature 
had  sent  into  the  world  with  great  shoulders  and  bright 
hair.  Not  only  was  her  mind  dead  to  him,  but  the  first 
kiss  that  had  seemed  to  her  the  inevitable  expression 
of  a  sacred  love  —  what  was  it  but  the  easy  common 
place  of  a  creature  to  whom  love  is  no  more  than  to 
the  beasts  that  perish  ?  It  all  made  her  think  warily 
and  even  scornfully  of  herself.  If  she  could  crown 
the  satyr,  was  there  satyr  blood  in  her,  too,  and 
must  she  beware  of  all  that  drunken  following  ?  But 
she  was  saying  to  Barton,  — 

"  You  must  n't  come  here  any  more." 

He  paled  under  his  surprise.  Then,  it  seeming  a 
prudential  veto,  he  accepted  it. 

210 


THE   DISCOVERY 


"  Very  well,"  he  said.  "  We  can  write,  until  I  come 
to  take  you  away  for  good." 

"  I  shan't  go,  Barton."  She  had  never  called  him 
by  his  name  before.  It  was  impossible  to  call  him  any 
thing  else  now  that  they  were  man  and  woman  fighting 
out  a  common  issue. 

"  You  won't  marry  me  ?  " 

"No." 

He  essayed  a  smile.  It  was  his  pathetic  medicine  to 
soften  her  unyieldingness. 

"  I  'm  not  so  unlovable.  I  'm  an  excellent  fellow  to 
live  with." 

"  You  must  n't  come,"  she  repeated.  "  You  must  n't 
be  — "  Then  she  paused,  with  another  flooding  of 
color  in  her  face.  It  was  borne  in  upon  her  that  she 
must  not  even  tell  him  his  name  was  not  to  be  con 
nected  with  hers  lest  others  leap  at  Laura's  certainty, 
and  he  should  be  despised  as  Laura  had  condemned 
him  at  the  gate. 

Little  Petrie,  absorbed  in  sundry  mischiefs,  had  been 
very  quiet,  but  now  he  came  in,  with  great  decision 
in  his  walk,  to  demand  the  creature  he  had  a  right  to. 
He  laid  his  hand  upon  Thyrza's  dress,  and,  with  the 
mechanical  response  of  motherhood,  she  bent  to  take 
him  up.  Gorse  rose,  in  irrepressible  revolt. 

"Put  him  down,  Thyrza,"  he  said,  in  a  changed 
voice.  "  Put  him  down." 

She  obeyed  sadly. 

"  You  see,"  she  said,  "  you  could  n't  bear  him." 

"  I  could  bear  it  if  you  —  if  he  belonged  to  me." 
211 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

"For  a  whole  lifetime?  You  can't  bear  a  minute 
of  him." 

"  That's  because  it 's  not  a  lifetime.  If  I'm  not  to 
come  here,  not  to  see  you  again,  I  've  a  right  to  my 
minute  with  you.  Send  him  away.  I  beg  it  of  you." 

She  rose  and,  lifting  the  child,  took  him  into  the 
next  room.  There  she  cast  about  for  something  to 
keep  him  quiet,  and  finding  it  in  one  of  Margaret 
Petrie's  gayest  pillows,  perennially  rescued  from  him, 
tossed  it  down  before  him,  came  back  and  shut  the 
door.  She  looked  at  Gorse  defiantly. 

''  You  must  n't  think  I  could  do  that  if  you  were  n't 
going  away,"  she  said.  "  I  love  him." 

His  face  curved  into  a  bitter  smile. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  of  course  you  love  him." 

"Besides  that,"  she  continued,  "he's  my  work  — 
what  I  Ve  got  to  do.  I  shall  bring  him  up." 

"  Yes,"  said  Gorse,  "  you  '11  lay  down  your  life  for 
him." 

She  accepted  that  as  a  matter  of  course. 

"  I  came  here,"  she  explained,  "  because  there 's 
the  academy.  There  are  day-scholars,  too,  you  know. 
I  could  n't  ever  afford  to  send  him  away  to  school ; 
but  if  we  live  here  —  " 

"  Thyrza,"  he  broke  in,  "  I  've  loads  of  money." 

She  would  not  even  hear  it. 

"  I  have  two  hundred  a  year,"  she  went  on,  as 
if  she  recited  a  lesson.  He  could  see  how  she  must 
have  gone  over  the  sterile  ground  as  she  sat  here 
alone  and  planned  the  campaign  of  her  coming  life. 

212 


THE   DISCOVERY 


(:  I  had  to  spend  it  all  this  year."  At  once  he  knew 
how  it  had  been  spent.  She  had  refused  to  let  Mar 
garet  Petrie  help  her  even  at  the  time  of  the  boy's 
birth,  and  she  had  furnished  this  little  house  with  the 
remnant  of  the  money.  "  But  after  this  I  can  save  it 
all.  I  mend  for  the  boys.  I  earn  a  lot." 

He  thought  of  her  mother  sitting  by  the  window, 
"  tailoring,"  and  Thyrza  also  thought  of  her. 

"It's  no  work  for  you,  Thyrza,"  he  said  gently. 
"  You  can  teach  at  least.  Why,  you  're  my  prize 
pupil.  It  does  n't  make  any  difference  that  I  've  had 
only  one.  You  'd  be  a  prize  pupil  anywhere." 

"  I  can't  teach,"  she  answered  steadily,  as  of  one 
of  the  things  she  also  had  desired  and  laid  by.  "  I  am 
not  married  and  not  a  widow.  People  would  n't  let 
their  children  come  to  me." 

He  could  have  cursed  a  world  that  would  not  take 
the  trouble  to  understand  her;  but  that,  he  knew, 
was  the  injustice  of  his  pitying  love.  All  the  expedi 
ents  that  go  to  the  defense  of  hurt  maidenhood 
thronged  upon  him  like  temptations.  She  could  give 
herself,  in  some  strange  place,  the  title  of  a  married 
woman.  She  could  even  put  away  the  child  —  but 
that  he  rejected  as  a  foul  suggestion  she  would  repu 
diate  and  him  with  it,  if  he  presented  it  to  her. 

"  You  call  yourself  -  "  he  hesitated,  in  the  un 
stable  hope  that  with  strangers  she  might  consent  to 
wear  the  veil  of  a  stolen  title.  Thyrza  lifted  her  head 
a  shade. 

"  Miss  Tennant,"  she  said.  "  That  Js  what  every- 
213 


THE   STORY   OF  THYRZA 

body  calls  me  —  the  boys  when  they  bring  their  mend 
ing,  the  minister.  I  told  him.  He  said  'Mrs.  Ten 
nant'  for  a  long  time." 

"  The  minister  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  go  to  church.  I  thought  it  would  be  better 
for  the  boy  as  he  grows  up." 

Gorse  desired  to  know  as  little  as  possible  about 
the  boy,  yet  he  had  a  yearning  desire  to  be  on  fa 
miliar  terms  with  all  her  ties. 

"  What  is  his  name  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Petrie.  Margaret  is  his  godmother.  He  is  Petrie 
Tennant,  and  I  am  Thyrza  Tennant." 

Following  the  unbending  course  of  her  voice,  and 
seeing  her  there  in  that  upright  poise  of  a  woman 
strong  in  health  and  fearlessness,  it  was  almost  possi 
ble  to  believe  she  was  proud  of  her  isolated  state,  and 
that,  being  different  from  the  world,  she  condemned 
the  world  for  its  unlikeness  to  her.  But  he  knew 
better.  He  knew  Thyrza  Tennant.  She  was  fighting 
a  terrible  fight,  and  she  had  dared  not  deflect  by  a 
line  from  the  course  marked  out  for  her.  What  had 
marked  it  out  ?  chance,  her  own  blind  impulse,  or  the 
monstrous  chaos  of  the  world  ? 

"But,"  she  concluded,  "  you  mustn't  come  here  any 


more." 


It  seemed  his  dismissal  and  he  rose. 

"  I  shall  write  to  you,"  he  temporized. 

She  considered  a  moment.  Then  her  face  quivered 
a  little,  and  she  looked  up  at  him  in  a  childlike  inter 
rogation.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the  potency  of  that 

214 


THE   DISCOVERY 


other  presence  in  the  next  room,  he  could  have  believed 
that  this  was  his  child,  his  pupil,  come  to  him  for 
help. 

"  It  seems,"  she  faltered,  "  as  if  I  might  have  that." 

"  You  're  going  to  have  it,"  he  assured  her  quickly, 
lest  she  should  reconsider  and  deny  him.  "  We  're 
both  going  to  have  it." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  Thyrza  gave  him  hers. 

"  You  '11  promise,"  she  said  earnestly,  "  you  won't 
come  ?  " 

He  was  scanning  her  face  sharply. 

"  It  almost  seems,"  he  said,  "  as  if  somehow  you 
think  it 's  for  my  sake  I  'm  not  to  come." 

She  would  not  raise  that  for  a  defense,  because  he 
could  knock  it  down.  It  was  for  his  sake,  for  his  dig 
nified  name,  but  it  was  also  for  hers,  a  little.  She  had 
to  take  her  path  alone,  her  son  holding  by  her  hand ; 
this  because  that  other  path  she  took,  in  however 
pathetic  ignorance,  led  into  this  one. 

"  Is  it  for  my  sake,  Thyrza  ?  "  he  was  repeating. 
"Or  for  yours?" 

She  stood  still  thinking. 

"I  know  you'll  tell  me  the  truth,"  he  pursued. 
"  You  always  tell  the  truth." 

The  blood  came  into  her  face,  and  her  eyes  turned 
to  him  in  a  look  of  flooding  gratitude.  He  had  under 
stood  her,  and  made  her  happier  than  he  could  guess. 

"That's  it,"  she  said,  "the  truth!  Whatever  it 
leads  to,  always,  always  I'm  going  to  tell  the  truth. 
I  'm  going  to  teach  the  boy  to  tell  it.  Whatever  comes 

215 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

of  it,  he 's  to  be  my  son  and  nothing  else.  We  're  going 
to  face  it,  every  single  time." 

He  put  the  question  of  the  boy  aside.  He  was 
thinking  tumultuously  of  himself  and  her. 

"If  I'm  not  to  come,  Thyrza,"  he  insisted,  "is  it 
for  my  sake  or  yours?  " 

"  You  are  not  to  come/'  she  told  him  unvaryingly, 
and  at  last  he  answered,  — 

"  I  'm  not  to  come  yet." 

Then  he  went  away. 


IX 
THE  WISE  YOUNG  JUDGE 

_L  HYRZA  TENNANT,  busy  over  the  stove  in  her  clean 
little  kitchen,  felt  the  approach  of  happiness.  Several 
times  during  the  past  years  she  had  heard  it  rushing 
by  her  to  other  goals,  and  once  or  twice  it  had  even 
seemed  for  a  moment  as  if  it  might  pause  at  her  own 
door.  But  it  always  turned  off,  just  before  reaching 
her,  into  those  mysterious  alleys  that  led  elsewhere, 
all  of  them  apparently  defended  by  signs  forbidding 
those  bearing  gifts  to  come  her  way.  She  was  a 
beautiful  woman  now,  because  her  life  had  been  set 
to  the  measure  of  a  simple  wholesomeness.  As  soon 
as  her  baby  came  she  had  charged  herself  to  learn  the 
rules  that  keep  the  health  of  the  body,  and  to  main 
tain  them,  with  an  unbroken  rigor,  for  her  son  and 
for  herself.  Strength  must  be  his  equipment  and 
hers  also,  because  he  was  inheritor  of  a  lonely  birth 
right,  and  she  must  be  his  unfailing  guardian.  At 
this  time  she  need  not  have  looked  middle-aged  at  all 
if  she  had  fostered  her  good  gifts.  All  the  attributes 
of  a  later  youth  were  hers,  none  lacking  but  the 
light-heartedness  that  sometimes  blooms  in  middle  life. 
That  seemed  to  have  flown  first  of  all  out  of  her  box 
of  plenty. 

Little  Petrie  was  now  Petrie  Tennant,  a  graduate 
of  the  university  he  had  stormed  and  conquered  with 

217 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

the  aid  of  his  mother's  clever  brain  and  multitudi 
nous  stitches.  Thyrza  herself,  when  he  was  little,  had 
started  him  in  his  Latin.  She  had  told  him  the  stories 
of  gods  and  heroes,  and  read  poetry  to  him  while  she 
stood  over  the  ironing-board  and  looked  off  from 
moment  to  moment  from  her  linen  polishing  to  the 
book  open  before  her.  She  hardly  considered  what 
Petrie  would  like  to  be,  but  it  seemed  to  her  ingen 
uous  mind,  as  it  always  had,  the  most  desirable 
thing  in  the  world  to  read  poetry  and  know  about 
gods  and  heroes.  So  she  taught  what  she  had  to  her 
son,  and  he  accepted  it  with  the  docility  that  made 
one  of  the  charms  of  his  virile  person.  Thyrza  was 
sure  he  adored  his  mother,  if  it  was  adoration  to  walk 
and  talk  and  almost  breathe  with  her,  and  never  to 
weary  of  her.  He  had  gone,  after  his  graduation  day, 
straight  into  journalism,  and  had  at  once  achieved 
certain  spectacular  successes  which  were  likely  to 
recommend  him  for  dramatic  crises  in  all  countries 
where  events  moved.  Now  Thyrza  had  money  and, 
according  to  his  fiat,  without  mending  for  it.  But  she 
would  not  as  yet  move  from  the  house  by  the  river. 
It  seemed  to  her  a  shell  she  could  not  at  once  relin 
quish.  If  she  tried  to,  there  were  a  great  many  chances 
of  her  being  bruised  by  a  world  she  was  not  familiar 
with.  It  was  better  for  her  to  sit  down  by  her  own 
window,  where  the  near  and  intimate  prospect  had  no 
stone  or  branch  she  did  not  know,  and  there  think  of 
her  son  and  read  books.  But  a  discovery  sprang  out  of 
these  changes  in  the  way  life  pulled  on  her :  books 

218 


THE    WISE   YOUNG   JUDGE 

were  not  what  they  had  been.  She  had  a  teasing 
sense  that  they  were  adjuncts  to  life,  and  that  just 
outside  her  door  was  life  itself.  She  longed  timidly, 
not  daring  to  tell  herself  she  did,  to  meet  it,  not  to 
have  it  spring  on  her  from  ambush  as  it  once  had, 
but  face  to  face. 

To-night  she  was  waiting  for  Petrie  to  come  for  a 
brief  visit,  a  farewell  one  because  he  was  to  be  sent 
away  again.  But  she  would  have  three  days  with  him, 
he  had  written.  That  accounted  for  her  happiness. 
It  was  a  cold  night,  and  she  was  glad,  because  it 
allowed  her  to  cook  him  the  supper  he  liked,  with 
cream  toast  and  jam  to  top  it.  She  looked  at  the 
table  for  the  last  time,  and  then,  conscious  of  the 
rush  of  her  anticipation,  withheld  for  a  moment  by 
these  trivial  yet  passionate  cares,  stood  still,  a  smile 
on  her  face  and  her  arms  stretched  upward,  as  she 
sometimes  lifted  them  in  unspoken  messages  to  the 
power  that  gave  her  life  and  joy  and  pain.  Then, 
before  she  had  time  to  contemplate  her  happiness 
further,  she  heard  the  clang  of  the  gate,  and  her  man- 
child  came  dashing  in,  bag  in  hand  and  all  the  cold 
of  the  evening  on  his  cheek.  In  a  moment  he  had 
caught  her  to  him  with  an  impetuous  snatch  and 
laughed  at  her  injunction  to  get  warm.  She  was 
at  the  flood-tide  of  satisfaction.  Petrie  was  a  great 
fellow,  of  admirable  proportions,  a  full  flush  of 
wholesome  color,  and  dark  eyes  that  laughed  as 
Thyrza's,  from  which  they  got  their  hue,  had  never 
done.  To  her  infinite  pride,  he  looked  a  gentleman, 

219 


THE   STORY  OF   THYRZA 

though  she  did  not  know  all  the  triumphant  evidence 
of  that ;  and  Petrie,  because  his  mind  was  not  on  the 
shows  of  things,  save  as  a  means  toward  dominance, 
had  never  thought  to  tell  her.  But  it  was  true  that 
all  through  his  college  life,  sharing  the  gayeties  of 
his  mates  who  by  some  chance  had  easy  money,  it 
was  he  who  carried  himself  to  admiration  and  won 
the  civilities  and  cap-touchings.  He  had  indisputably 
the  air  of  inheritance,  and  Thyrza,  looking  on,  some 
times  wondered  at  him  for  a  kind  of  princely  stranger 
alighted  at  her  door,  with  whom  she  had  manifold 
interests  but  no  kinship. 

To-night  there  was  every  sign  of  kinship  and  the 
most  intimate  affection .  He  was  charmed  to  be  at  home, 
and  exerted  himself  to  please  as  if  he  had  nothing  to 
recommend  him  but  his  good  wits,  and  must  stretch 
them  to  the  utmost.  But  as  they  sat  at  the  table  and 
he  devoured  her  chops  and  toast,  she  became  aware 
that  a  double  charm  invested  him:  he  was  not  only 
satisfied  to  be  at  home,  but  he  was  infinitely  delighted 
with  what  the  world  was  giving  him.  He  seemed 
rather  removed  from  her  now  in  his  absorption  in  the 
life  of  youth,  and  she  could  watch  him  from  a  distance 
and  with  entire  ease,  as  one  might  regard  the  gam- 
bolings  of  a  fiery  colt  which  is  safely  over  the  fence. 
They  could  not  always  complete  between  them  the 
perfect  globe  of  happiness.  Thyrza  knew  she  had 
plucked  her  child  out  of  the  depths  of  nature,  and 
that  he  and  she  might  have  been  light-heartedly  re 
sponsive  to  each  other  if  there  had  been  none  but 

220 


THE  WISE   YOUNG   JUDGE 

nature  to  classify  them.  As  it  was,  adore  him  as  she 
might,  she  was  not  always  unconstrained  with  him. 
There  were  unspoken  things  between  them.  One  hour 
of  revelation  there  had  been  when  he  came  home  to 
her,  a  little  boy,  his  cheek  white  and  his  eyes  blazing 
over  the  incredible  horror  tossed  at  him  by  a  gang  of 
lads  in  the  street.  Thyrza  had  laid  a  firm  hand  on  his 
shoulder  and  drawn  him  to  her.  This  was  the  bridge 
she  had  seen  before  her  even  through  the  shadows  of 
her  difficult  way.  It  joined,  she  knew,  the  land  they 
had  lived  in  as  the  baby  lives  at  its  mother's  breast, 
and  that  other  stretch  where  she  and  her  son  would 
walk  together,  yet,  perhaps,  apart.  But  it  must  be 
crossed.  He  was  her  son,  she  told  him,  but  he  had  no 
father  whose  name  he  could  ever  bear.  He  must  be  a 
man,  never  understanding  this  that  she  told  him,  never 
expecting  to  understand.  He  must  be  more:  a  gentle 
man.  Petrie  had  fixed  his  dry  eyes  on  her  face  then 
in  an  incredulity  she  remembered  to  this  day,  the 
sting  and  shame  of  it.  But  he  had  asked  no  questions 
and  he  had  never  again  come  home  crying.  He  be 
came  more  than  ever  the  leader,  and  the  boys  followed 
him;  but  indubitably  he  was  not  her  little  son  any 
more.  He  was  the  man-child  who  loved  her  and  was 
dutiful  to  her. 

To-night,  when  supper  was  over,  he  sat  in  the  fire 
light,  and  Thyrza,  on  the  other  side  of  the  hearth, 
watched  him  with  an  adoring  admiration,  the  curve  of 
his  hand  as  he  took  the  cigarette  from  his  lips  and  let 
it  hang  for  a  moment  at  his  side,  all  the  unconscious 

221 


THE   STORY    OF    THYRZA 

virility  of  his  pose.  She  had  moments  of  pride  in  him 
untainted  by  the  secret  that  walked  and  sat  with  her, 
but  never  until  to-night  one  of  such  entire  acquiescence 
in  his  charm  and  power.  He  threw  the  cigarette  into 
the  fire. 

"  Mother !  "  he  said. 

"  Yes/'  Thyrza  answered,  out  of  her  dream  of  him. 

But  it  seemed  he  had  to  think  a  little.  At  last  he 
broke  into  a  laugh. 

"It's  awfully  hard,"  he  said.  "Mother,  there's  a 
girl." 

Thyrza's  heart  constricted,  and  her  fire  of  worship 
died.  It  left  a  dark,  bare  hearth. 

"You  don't  mean  you  —  " 

"I  do,  mother,  I  do."  He  was  laughing  again  in 
his  charming  way,  but  now  quite  without  reserve  since 
he  had  made  the  plunge.  "  She  's  Putty's  niece." 

"  Professor  Putnam  ?  " 

"  She  's  with  the  Puttys  this  year.  This  fall  she 
goes  back  to  Germany.  She  's  studying  music  there." 

It  was  like  a  dream.  This  was  her  little  boy,  and 
he  was  marching  steadily  into  that  other  house  of  life 
where  men  hold  up  the  pillars  of  the  world  under 
their  own  roof-trees. 

"  Are  you  engaged  ?  "  she  asked  confusedly. 

"  No,  dear,  no.  Of  course  not.  I  'm  nothing  to  be 
engaged  to,  yet.  Putty  thinks  great  shakes  of  me  be 
cause  I  have  n't  balked  at  any  kind  of  work,  but  he  'd 
be  very  slow  about  giving  me  his  niece." 

"What  is  her  name?"  Thyrza  did  not  care  very 

222 


THE   WISE   YOUNG   JUDGE 

much  to  know.  Her  name  was  sure  to  be  distinguished 
since  she  was  selected  for  the  wonderful  role  of  her 
boy's  love;  but  questions  helped  to  put  off  other 
interrogations  that  were  sure  to  come. 

"  Angelica." 

"  That 's  a  beautiful  name." 

"  She  plays  the  fiddle,"  said  Petrie.  "  She  's  got 
an  awful  lot  of  talent.  Mother !  " 

Something  in  his  voice  made  her  start  and  look 
at  him,  a  little  trembling  of  apprehension  fluttering 
through  her.  His  brows  were  drawn  together,  and  he 
was  gazing,  not  at  her  but  at  the  fire.  That  frown 
was,  she  saw,  not  the  sign  of  harsh  emotion,  but  of 
great  intentness ;  yet  it  afflicted  her  like  a  flag  of 
trouble.  He  had  evidently  made  up  his  mind  to  go  on 
without  regard  to  his  own  distaste  for  what  he  had 
to  say. 

"  Mother,  old  Putty  asked  me  the  other  day  —  he 
turned  to  me  and  asked  me  suddenly  —  whether  my 
father  was  a  professional  man." 

Thyrza  often  wondered  whether  when  she  felt  in  a 
certain  way,  with  darkened  vision  and  a  crawling  at 
the  finger-tips,  she  had  grown  white,  as  people  do 
when  they  faint.  Now  she  must,  she  thought,  have 
asked  him  some  question  to  convoy  him  on,  for  he 
was  saying,  still  with  that  frown  which  seemed  all 
sombre  consideration,  — 

"  I  told  him  my  forbears  were  country  people." 

"  Oh !  "  It  was  a  breath  of  vain  remonstrance. 
Thyrza  drew  it  involuntarily,  but  it  told  him  she  con- 

223 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

sidered  that  he  had  seen  his  opportunity  and  had  let 
it  pass  him  by. 

"  Do  you  remember/'  he  continued,  as  if  he  had 
thought  out  beforehand  exactly  the  way  their  talk 
would  go,  "  my  coming  to  you,  when  I  was  a  little 
chap,  and  telling  you  what  the  fellows  had  been  hol 
lering  after  me?" 

She  bent  her  head  mutely. 

"  Well,  from  that  day  to  this  nobody  but  old  Putty 
has  ever  asked  me  a  question  I  could  n't  laugh  off. 
His  butting  in  was  pretty  serious.  I  knew  what  it 
meant.  He  'd  been  considering  me  with  reference  to 
her." 

"  Angelica  ?  " 

"  Yes.  He  'd  talked  me  over  with  his  wife.  She  'd 
said  they  must  be  able  to  place  me." 

Thyrza  was  silent.  She  seemed  turned  to  a  listening 
image,  regarding  the  bricks  of  the  hearth.  He  looked 
at  her,  and  drew  a  quick  breath  of  irritation  over  the 
miserable  circumstances  where  they  found  themselves. 

"  Well,  mother,"  he  urged  curtly,  in  a  brusqueness 
she  dumbly  forgave  him,  because  it  was  the  expres 
sion  of  his  complete  hatred  of  his  task,  "  I  've  got  to 
be  placed." 

She  was  turning  the  situation  over  and  over  in  her 

o 

mind,  regarding  it  as  her  mother,  in  the  old  tailoring 
days,  might  have  studied  a  patch  too  problematic  to 
mend  with. 

"  Was  any  one  by  when  he  asked  you  ?  "  she  ven 
tured. 

224 


THE  WISE   YOUNG  JUDGE 

"  Yes.  His  wife  —  Angelica." 

"  Yes  !  "  There  was  excuse  for  Petrie,  she  thought, 
in  not  making  the  brutal  crudeness  of  his  assertion 
before  the  girl  he  loved.  It  would  have  been  like 
drawing  a  dagger  on  her.  "  But  you  went  to  him 
afterwards  ?  "  she  besought.  "  You  told  him  then  ?  " 

"  No,  mother,  I  have  not  told  him  one  single  word 
beyond  what  I  said." 

Thyrza  sat  unmoved  in  her  miserable  gaze  at  the 
hearth  that  would  not  help  her  mind,  and  he  had  to 
go  on. 

"  Do  you  remember,  when  I  was  that  little  chap, 
how  you  told  me  to  meet  such  questions  ?  " 

"  I  told  you,"  she  said,  almost  with  an  anger  that 
it  did  not  mean  more  to  both  of  them  at  that  instant, 
"  to  tell  the  truth." 

"  I  remember  it  impressed  me  even  then  as  your 
seeming  to  want  me  to  lose  no  opportunity  of  telling 
it.  Did  you  ever  happen  to  know  how  I  did  meet  that 
particular  situation  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  I  '11  tell  you.  I  went  that  night  and  licked  every 
boy  of  them  that  jeered  at  me.  Two  I  called  out  from 
the  supper-table." 

She  looked  up  at  him.  The  brute  ferocity  in  his 
voice  reminded  her  to  see  what  manner  of  son  he 
was.  At  once  she  became  aware  that  he  was  a  man  as 
other  men  are,  come  in  to  her  from  the  world  of  men, 
with  all  its  customs  and  temptations  in  his  pocket. 
He  was  speaking  with  a  dry  acridity  that  showed  he 

225 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

had  exhausted  all  possibilities  of  retort,  most  of  all  the 
humorous.  "  I  can't  bloody  old  Putty's  nose.  But 
there  's  got  to  be  a  suitable  answer  from  this  time 
forth." 

Thyrza  now  felt  herself  where  she  had  always  ex 
pected  to  be  placed :  in  the  witness-box,  accounting 
for  her  life.  Strangely,  she  did  not  mind  it  so  much 
as  she  had  anticipated.  Nerves  that  had  held  them 
selves  in  training  all  this  time,  tightened,  as  if  to 
say,  "  Play  upon  us.  We  will  not  snap."  Whether  she 
could  play  harmoniously  was  another  matter,  but  this 
consonant  preparation  was  like  the  tuning  of  the 
strings.  She  drew  herself  up  slightly  in  her  chair,  and 
forbade  the  hands  lying  in  her  lap  to  clasp  each  other 
with  any  sign  of  tension.  She  did  not  look  at  him 
again.  This  seemed  to  be  not  her  son,  but  a  man 
equipped  with  every  attribute  save  mercy,  ready  to 
pronounce  sentence. 

"  Mother,"  he  said  at  last,  in  an  impatience  of 
appeal,  "  I  've  got  to  meet  the  world." 

"  There 's  only  one  way  to  meet  it,"  said  Thyrza, 
in  the  monotony  of  the  phrase  she  had  found  long  ago 
to  cap  this  one  of  his. 

"There's  a  mighty  lot  of  ways,"  he  asserted. 
"  We  're  not  'down  in  Judee.' ' 

She  had  taught  him  the  quotation  and  frowned 
slightly  over  it. 

"  There 's  but  one  way,"  she  repeated  inflexibly. 
"You've  got  to  meet  the  world  for  what  you  are* 
You  are  my  son,  and  I  was  never  married." 

226 


THE  WISE  YOUNG  JUDGE 

Then  came  the  horrible  question  that  had  hung 
over  her  all  these  years  like  the  fatal  sword. 

"  Why  weren't  you  married  ?  " 

He  asked  it  awkwardly,  miserably,  because  he  was 
so  ashamed  of  asking.  That  question,  too,  had  beaten 
itself  out  in  his  mind  incessantly  as  one  he  must  sat 
isfy  himself  upon,  one  he  could  never  ask;  yet  now  he 
had  put  it,  and  his  mother  sat  there  unmoved  in  her 
austerity.  She  was  answering, — 

"  I  can't  tell  you." 

"You  won't  tell  me?" 

He  had  gathered  anger  by  the  way,  and  as  it  had 
seemed  to  her  that  he  was  a  strange  judge  set  to 
weigh  her  actions,  now  he  seemed  so  to  himself. 

"I  won't  tell  you." 

"Does  any  one  know?" 

She  answered  in  the  lifeless  certitude  of  one  on  oath 
to  tell  the  straight  story  of  which  she  was  gravely 
and  miserably  assured. 

"I  have  told  no  one." 

"Is  he— alive?" 

That  question  he  dragged  up  from  the  depth  of  his 
intention,  as  if  it  were  a  foul  thing  he  was  afraid  to 
look  at. 

"Yes." 

"Do  you— see  him?" 

Fierce,  sudden  jealousy  possessed  him,  the  instinct 
of  sex-possession  rising  up  to  repudiate  the  man  who 
was  his  foe  and  yet  so  hatefully,  so  incredibly  near  to 
him.  This  time  she  turned  upon  him  in  a  sudden 

227 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

anger  he  loved  her  for.  It  almost  threw  them  back  for 
a  moment  into  their  relation  of  mother  and  son. 

"No.  Of  course  I  don't.  Why  should  you  ask  me 
that?" 

"You  used  to  have  letters,"  he  hesitated,  finding 
it  the  more  difficult  to  speak  now  that  she  had  come 
nearer  to  him  in  that  moment  of  passion.  "Every 
week.  They  had  a  foreign  postmark." 

She  got  up  and  went  to  the  corner  cupboard  where, 
on  the  floor,  was  disclosed  a  little  painted  chest  he 
had  always  known  as  locked.  She  took  a  key  from 
the  shelf  above,  unlocked  the  little  chest  and  propped 
up  its  lid  to  show  him  neat  rows  of  docketed  letters. 
Several  lay  loosely  on  the  top.  She  selected  one  at 
random,  and,  returning,  gave  it  to  him. 

"Read  it,"  she  said,  with  a  certain  proud  indiffer 
ence.  "You  could  see  any  of  the  others  exactly  as 
well.  Read  them  all,  if  you  like." 

As  he  did  not  take  the  letter,  she  laid  it  on  the 
table  at  his  hand,  and  presently  he  drew  it  to  him 
unwillingly  and  opened  the  thin  large  sheets.  He  read, 
frowning  at  first  with  distaste  and  then  with  attention. 
He  came  to  the  signature  and  repeated  it  aloud, 
"Barton  Gorse." 

"That  was  the  chap  who  gave  you  lessons,"  he 
interpolated. 

"Yes,"  she  added.  Then,  irrepressibly,  out  of  her 
old-fashioned  vocabulary,  "Not  the  chap — the  gen 
tleman." 

But  name  and  identity  meant  less  to  him  than  the 

228 


THE  WISE   YOUNG   JUDGE 

discovery  in  one  sentence  toward  the  end.  Reading 
that,  he  came  oat  in  an  explosion  of  surprise,  — 

"  He  asks  you  to  marry  him." 

"Is  it  in  that  letter?"  she  inquired,  out  of  a 
genuine  indifference.  "I  didn't  remember  which  one 
it  was." 

"  He 's  very  incidental  about  it !  " 

"  He  does  it  two  or  three  times  a  year.  There 's  no 
particular  need  of  his  paving  the  way."  Then  she  re 
garded  him  with  a  sudden  curiosity.  "  Is  it  a  good 
letter?"  she  asked.  She  wondered  how  Barton  Gorse 
would  strike  another  man. 

"  Stunning  !  He  's  got  style,  humor,  the  whole  out 
fit.  Did  n't  you  tell  me  he 's  a  relation  of  Terry 
Updike  ?  " 

"  His  nephew." 

"  And  you  've  known  him  all  these  years.  How 
long,  mother  ?  " 

"  Ever  since  I  was  a  little  girl  and  he  taught  me 
Latin.  He  has  been"  —  her  voice  lingered  over  the 
words  —  uhe  is  the  best  friend  a  woman  ever  had." 

"  Why  does  he  live  abroad?  " 

"  He  has  a  sister  there.  She  made  an  unfortunate 
marriage,  and  for  a  long  time  she  and  her  husband 
lived  apart.  Then  he  summoned  her,  but  I  know 
Barton  never  feels  quite  secure  about  her.  He  wants 
to  be  there  —  on  call,  he  says." 

"  Are  they  with  Updike  ?  " 

"Not  Helen,  not  the  sister.  Barton  is  with  him. 
He  goes  to  his  sister  now  and  then." 

229 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

"  Why  does  n't  he  come  home  ?  If  he  asks  you 
this — "  he  paused  and  looked  again  at  the  letter 
with  its  incidental  declaration. 

"  I  forbade  him,"  she  rejoined  steadily.  "  He  came 
here  once  years  ago,  when  you  were  a  baby.  I  told 
him  he  was  never  to  come  again." 

"Why?" 

"  My  sister  had  been  here  that  day.  She  — "  A 
flame  like  the  blush  of  young  love  swept  over  her 
face.  It  seemed  half  indignation,  half  an  intolerable 
anguish.  "  She  suspected  him  of  —  oh,  I  can't !  I 
can't !  "  She  rose  to  her  feet,  stung  by  the  sudden  re 
membrance  that  the  man  here  was  her  son  and  that 
their  talk  was  hideous. 

But  from  habit  as  long  as  his  youth,  his  tenderness 
rose  in  response  to  her  need  of  it. 

"  Sit  down,  dear,"  he  said  gravely. 

She  obeyed  him. 

"  I  cannot  have  him  suspected,"  she  said,  in  a  voice 
eloquent  with  the  promise  of  tears.  "  I  could  n't  then. 
I  can't  now.  It  was  better  never  to  see  him  again." 

"  You  are  very  fond  of  him,  mother." 

"  He  is  the  best  of  all  creatures.  I  can't  hurt  him." 

His  mind  had  leaped  back  to  a  picture  her  words 
had  given  him. 

"  Your  sister,  Laura,"  he  said.  "  That  would  be  my 
aunt  Laura." 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"  You  suppose  so,  mother  ?  Why,  would  n't  she 
be?" 

230 


THE  WISE  YOUNG   JUDGE 

"  I  never  see  her/'  she  evaded  him.  "  I  asked  her 
not  to  come." 

"I  should  like  to  see  my  aunt  Laura,"  he  mused. 

"For  data?"  she  flashed  back  at  him.  "To  ask 
about  your  mother?" 

He  did  not  answer  that  because  he  knew,  with  the 
insight  of  a  really  tender  heart,  he  need  not.  It  was 
the  savage  response  of  her  overwrought  nerves,  and  it 
might  be  ignored  like  the  distressful  cry  it  was.  He 
began  with  a  softness  her  heart  responded  to  by 
a  wholesale  leap  toward  whatever  purpose  he  might 
judge  desirable. 

"Mother,  do  you  know  I  don't  half  believe  you're 
taking  this  right." 

"This?"  She  looked  at  him  now  suspiciously.  It 
seemed  likely  he  would  lure  her  from  the  narrow  path 
full  of  hurts  and  dangers  she  had  been  walking  for  so 
many  years,  and  set  her  on  some  table-land  of  content 
she  could  never  leave  again.  He  took  out  another 
cigarette  and  then  clapped  it  in  his  case  as  if  the 
issue  were  too  serious  to  admit  of  indulgence  by  the 
way.  He  turned  on  her  his  sudden,  irradiating  smile. 

"'Mother,"  he  said,  "I  don't  believe  you  know  in 
the  least  what  kind  of  a  world  it  is." 

She  could  believe  that.  She  waited  for  him  to  tell 
her.  He  was  frowning  over  it  as  he  saw  it,  —  the 
great  splendid  friendly  and  unfriendly  world,  —  and 
wishing  he  knew  how  to  translate  it  to  her. 

"You  see,  it's  this  way,"  he  essayed.  "You've 
lived  in  a  corner  here  like  a  desperate  little  mouse 

231 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

fighting  the  cat.  That's  the  world,  the  green-eyed 
world,  all  claws.  Well,  you've  had  a  devil  of  a  fight, 
but  you're  only  used  to  fighting  in  your  corner.  Take 
you  out  of  it  and  the  cat  would  get  you." 

Her  lip  quivered  with  an  instant's  throb,  and  she 
shut  her  teeth  upon  it,  as  if  to  bid  it  remember  what 
savage  things  might  happen  to  it  if  it  rebeUed  again. 

"  Your  Barton  Gorse,  over  there  in  England, —  well, 
I  dare  say  he  does  n't  know  the  world  any  better." 

She  smiled  a  little  because  it  seemed  to  her  that 
Barton  Gorse  did  know  nearly  everything. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  suppose  I  sound  like  a  blatant  young 
ass,"  said  Petrie,  responding  to  the  smile.  "But  I 
happen  to  be  standing  neck  and  neck  with  other  chaps 
of  my  age.  We  're  booked  for  the  race.  We  've  got  to 
make  good.  The  meditative  life,  the  life  of  reflection, 
where  are  they?  If  we  met  them  at  the  theatre  we 
should  n't  know  them ;  the  theatre 's  the  only  place 
where  we  do  meet  anything  nowadays.  We  've  got  to 
make  good." 

"  People  do  live  the  ideal  life." 

"  Where  do  they  live  it  ?  On  a  settled  income,  then. 
You  can't  live  the  ideal  life  unless  you  cut  off  coupons, 
too.  Mother,  I  know  !  " 

He  had  told  her  enough  in  the  years  of  his  intimate 
contact  with  men,  for  her  also  to  recognize  many 
things,  however  she  might  sit  in  her  tower  weaving 
meshes  to  veil  the  ugly  figure  of  modern  contest.  Petrie 
was  a  favorite  with  men.  He  knew  crowds  of  them,  older 
than  the  mates  he  ran  with.  Through  them  and  his 

232 


THE  WISE  YOUNG  JUDGE 

picture  of  them  Thyrza  was  aware  that  modern  busi 
ness  is  a  game  of  slay  and  spare  not ;  but  since  her  son 
was  to  be  somewhere  on  the  outskirts  of  it,  governing 
intellectual  issues,  —  unless,  indeed,  he  should  make  a 
bold  assault  and  dash  in,  —  she  had  felt  the  infection 
of  the  time  need  not  touch  him  at  all.  By  a  leap  of 
her  quick  fancy,  she  saw  now  that  he  was  applying 
the  methods  of  the  market-place  to  this  business  of 
the  inward  life.  He  was  presently  to  tell  her  so. 

"  It 's  fight,  sheer  fight,  mother,"  he  was  urging. 
"Why  won't  you  understand  it?" 

"  It 's  always  been  a  fight,"  she  flamed.  She  wanted 
to  marshal  the  bright  names  that  kept  crowding 
upon  her  and  use  them  like  armies.  These  were  the 
saints,  the  martyrs,  even  the  poets  whose  hearts  had 
broken  upon  the  flint  of  "a  brutal  world." 

"  Not  like  this,"  he  was  saying. 

"Why  not  like  this?  How  is  it  different?" 

"Once  they  endured — the  big  chaps.  We  don't 
endure.  We  conquer." 

She  was  staring  at  him  curiously,  as  if  he  were  the 
not  altogether  welcome  messenger  from  a  far  country 
bringing  her  news,  of  a  sort  she  was  obliged  to  heed. 
How  could  she  deny  that  the  strange  country  had  rules 
of  its  own,  proven  perhaps  more  serviceable  than  her 
Tables  of  the  Law?  She  had  nourished  her  faith  on 
old  heroic  tales.  Were  they  only  tales  of  legendry? 
Surely  she  must  listen  to  him. 

"  Why,  mother,"  he  was  continuing,  in  a  pitying 
tenderness,  "  don't  you  know  how  it  used  to  be  about 

233 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

diseases,  even  in  your  time?  Girls  got  their  hearts 
broken  and  6  went  into  a  decline.'  Now  we  send  'em 
to  a  sanatorium  and  feed  'em  on  milk  and  eggs. 
Somebody  '  went  into  consumption '  then,  and  whole 
families  shared  the  taint.  It  was  a  '  visitation  of  God.' 
Now  we  find  the  germ  and  put  our  foot  on  it.  Don't 
you  see,  you  old  dear  ?  The  world  is  n't  an  arena  where 
we  're  to  be  eaten  up  alive.  It 's  a  schoolhouse  where 
we  learn.  It 's  a  market-place  where  we  fight." 

This  was  a  long  speech  and  he  glanced  round  at  her 
brightly,  rather  proud  of  himself.  She  tried  humbly 
to  complete  the  simile. 

"  Yes,  but,  Petrie,your  world  has  rules.  Who  makes 
your  rules  ?  " 

His  face  flared  up  with  the  fire  of  youth. 

"  We  dig  'em  out  of  things  as  they  are.  We  don't 
build  up  a  scheme  of  things  as  they  never  can  be,  and 
stretch  ourselves  on  Early-Christian  racks  to  fit  it. 
No,  sir  !  if  we  want  an  article  we  plank  down  the  cash, 
of  one  sort  or  another,  and  get  it." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  she  could  hear 
him  breathing. 

"  Why,  mother,"  he  fulminated,  "the  world  was  n't 
passed  to  us  ready-made.  We  've  got  to  shape  it  for 
ourselves." 

That  touched  her. 

"  Yes  !  yes  !  "  she  cried,  quite  eagerly,  "  so  I  have 
thought,  Petrie.  If  every  one  was  just,  if  every  one 
was  kind  —  " 

"  Why,  dear  soul,"  said  Petrie  pityingly,  "  that 's 

234 


THE  WISE  YOUNG  JUDGE 

like  earning  '  a  precarious  living-  by  taking  in  one  an 
other's  washing.'  It  would  all  be  milk  and  water,  a  sea 
of  it.  We  should  drown  in  it.  Besides,  everybody 
won't  be  just.  They  won't  be  kind.  Don't  you  know 
that  ?  The  only  thing  for  us  to  do  is  to  study  reac 
tions,  study  causes,  study  results,  say  to  ourselves, ( If 
I  want  to  reach  a  given  point  what  road  will  take  me 
to  it  ?  What  is  expedient  ?  '  " 

She  threw  out  her  hands.  "I  hate  that  word,  Pe- 
trie,"  she  said  faintly. 

"Expedient?  How  else  do  you  suppose  your  institu 
tions  grew  up,  the  ones  you  swear  by  ?  They  were 
expedient.  Now  you  see  them  bound  round  with  brass 
and  iron,  you  think  they  're  sacred.  All  you  see  really  is 
a  kind  of  holy  gloss  over  them.  Don't  balk  at  a  word, 
mother.  It 's  expedient  to  take  the  track  that  leads 
you  somewhere." 

Her  heart  was  faint  within  her.  Out  of  his  know 
ledge,  his  brand-new  equipment,  even  the  power  of  his 
magnetic  flesh,  he  seemed  older  than  she,  and  infinitely 
wiser.  It  was  well,  she  thought,  to  conclude  the  argu 
ment,  to  rush  to  her  own  fall,  if  that  must  be. 

"Petrie,"  she  said,  "what  do  you  want  me  to  do?" 

"That's  it,"  he  answered,  in  the  quick  relief  of  one 
who  sees  his  adversary  melting  to  conviction.  "  What 
shall  we  do  ?  " 

He  was  turning  for  her  the  pages  of  the  book  of 
nature  which  is  not  always  the  book  of  God.  Was 
it  necessary  for  her  to  read  that  page  ?  She  summoned 
back  the  resolutions  that  had  looked  to  her  like  angels 

235 


THE   STORY  OF   THYRZA 

once,  and  now,  like  sad-faced  angels,  seemed  to  turn 
their  backs. 

"There's  but  one  way — "  she  began  faintly. 

"  Mother,  there  are  a  thousand  ways.  Life  has 
changed,  I  tell  you,  with  the  conditions  of  it.  We've 
got  to  fight  with  the  weapons  now  in  use.  Don't  ex 
pect  me  to  go  out  with  Excalibur  when  the  other 
fellows  have  smokeless  powder.  If  one  of  your  mys 
tics  found  himself  in  business  in  New  York  to-day, 
what  do  you  think  he'd  do?  Well,  I'll  tell  you.  He'd 
play  the  game  or  he'd  find  himself  outside  the  ring." 

Thyrza  had  a  quick  inner  eye  that  was  apt  to  light 
up  at  the  call  of  phrases,  and  immediately  it  thrust  her 
a  vision  of  a  green  tranquil  earth  outside  that  ring 
where  dirt-smeared  combatants  were  punching  one 
another. 

"  I  'm  not  going  to  be  knocked  out,"  her  son  was 
asserting,  as  his  handsome  face  scowled  at  the  fire. 
"  I  'm  going  to  stay  in." 

"  You  're  going  to  write,"  his  mother  counseled 
him.  There  was  yearning  suggestion  in  the  words. 
It  warned  him  that  in  literature  he  was  to  find  the 
very  playground  and  house  of  worship  of  the  ideal. 
Expediency  had  not  even  a  hollow  echo  there. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  write  from  a  cloister,"  said 
Petrie.  "  Europe  is  my  preparatory  dip.  I  'm  going  to 
be  soused  all  over  in  life,  not  life  that 's  made  for  me 
and  that  can  be  lived  only  according  to  the  traditions 
of  two  centuries  ago.  After  Europe  I  'm  going  into 
the  wilds,  into  the  north,  into  the  west,  everywhere 

236 


THE  WISE  YOUNG  JUDGE 

where  there's  space  that  isn't  preempted,  and  I'm 
going  to  write  about  it."  He  looked  strong  with  the 
lust  of  life,  and  she  saw  how  many  miles  he  had 
traveled  since  she  had  taught  him  the  polite  learning 
he  was  regarding  as  a  suit  of  clothes  to  wear  into 
savagery.  "  After  all,"  he  was  saying,  "  I  suppose 
I  'm  going  to  Europe  because  Angelica  is  to  be  there. 
I  need  it,  too,  I  suppose,  like  a  language.  But  the 
language  is  only  to  use  in  doing  bigger  things.  It 
is  n't  the  biggest  thing  to  learn  it." 

"  Well,"  said  Thyrza  sharply,  "  what  do  you  want 
me  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  want  you  first  to  move." 

"Move!"  She  looked  about  her  at  the  little  old 
house  that  had  become  her  shell,  ill-fitting  in  some 
ways,  as  she  had  chafed  arid  it  had  hindered  her. 

"  There 's  a  house  at  Bosworth.  It 's  a  dear.  I  want 
you  to  move  in  there  as  —  Mrs.  Tennant." 

Thyrza  was  on  her  feet  in  an  instant.  She  clutched 
the  back  of  her  chair,  getting  the  chair  between  them 

7  o  o 

as  if  he  might  hurt  her. 

"  I  will  never  —  "  she  began  —  "  never  —  " 
The  monstrous  egotism  of  youth  was  before  her, 
distorted  like  some  gay  mountebank  from  a  picture, 
a  creature  that  was  St.  Michael  in  every  line  and  yet 
in  some  lights  leered  abominably.  He  was  going  on 
steadily  with  his  conception  of  her  future. 

"At  least  you  've  given  up  this  figment  of  mend 
ing."  At  her  glance,  he  stopped.  "  You  're  right. 
God  knows  it  has  n't  been  a  figment.  You  've  put 

237 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

me  through  college  with  your  needle.  But  the  whole 
atmosphere  has  got  to  be  changed.  We  are  going  to 
be  respectable." 

Thyrza  sat  down  again  in  her  place. 

"I  shall  never  be  respectable/'  she  said,  in  the 
quietest  tone.  "  Won't  you  put  on  a  stick  of  wood  ?  " 

He  did  it  with  care,  and  the  fire,  obeying  him, 
danced. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  in  a  curious  and  contemplative 
tone,  "  you  have  n't  had  any  fun,  all  your  life." 

"  So  he  said,"  she  returned,  nodding  toward  the 
cupboard  where  the  precious  letters  were  hoarded. 

"Barton  Gorse?" 

"  One  of  the  last  times  he  wrote." 

"  He  could  give  it  to  you,"  said  Petrie  tentatively. 

Immediately  his  mother  knew,  with  a  bitter  humor 
only  now  awakened,  that  he  had  caught  at  the  shelter 
of  Barton  Gorse's  name  for  her. 

"  You  like  him  very  much,  mother,"  he  said  again 
suggestively. 

Thyrza  tried  to  answer  quietly.  She  had  grown  so 
used  to  thinking  of  herself  as  a  middle-aged  woman, 
that  it  seemed  to  her  absurd  to  make  flaming  declara 
tions  at  the  challenge  of  her  son. 

"  I  can't  tell  what  I  think  of  Barton  Gorse.  I  don't 
quite  know."  But  immediately  her  mind,  that  kept 
illustrating  lif  a  for  her  in  little  rapid  pictures,  told  her 
that  he  was  a  window  looking  into  spaciousness  and 
beauty,  the  beauty  of  the  made  and  natural  world. 
Through  him  she  had  seen  the  earth  outside  her  celL 

238 


THE  WISE  YOUNG  JUDGE 

She  might  not  be  able  to  set  her  foot  on  that  free 
ground,  but  he  never  let  her  forget  it  was  there. 

"I  suppose  you  wonder  why  I  bring  all  this  up 
to-night,"  Petrie  was  saying,  flinging  the  words  at 
her  as  if  he  had  a  distaste  for  them. 

"  No.  It  had  to  be." 

"  To-morrow  Angelica  is  coming." 

"  Here  !  "  Now  she  did  take  fright  equal  to  his  own. 
The  unknown  beloved  at  hand,  ready  to  confront  him 
and  his  mother  with  her  dewy  innocence,  seemed  a 
more  terrible  figure  than  abstract  Justice  itself  in  its 
panoply  of  right. 

"  She  has  heard  old  Dan'el  —  down  by  the  wharf, 
you  know  —  " 

"  Yes,  Rosie  May's  uncle." 

"  She  has  heard  he  has  a  violin.  She 's  coming  to 
look  at  it.  Who  is  Rosie  May  ?  It  seems  to  me  the 
most  amazing  lot  of  new  names  are  coming  out."  He 
was  looking  at  her  half  suspiciously,  she  thought,  in 
her  bitterness,  as  if  any  name  might  be  a  witness 
against  her. 

"  She  used  to  go  to  school  with  me.  Go  on." 

"  Well,  Angelica  is  coming  to  look  at  the  violin." 

"  He  'd  send  it,"  said  Thyrza  quickly.  In  that  one 
phrase  she  saw  herself  darting  to  a  futile  cover. 

"No.  She  wrote  him.  He  would  n't.  She's  to  be  at 
the  hotel  for  an  hour.  She  asked  if  she  might  call  on 
you." 

"On  me?" 

"Things  have  gone  a  pretty  good  gait  with  us, 
239 


THE   STORY  OF   THYRZA 

you  see.  She  wants  to  know  my  mother!  I  told  her 
you  and  I  would  call." 

"  No  !  no  !  "  Thyrza  was  saying.  "  It 's  impossible." 

"I  begin  to  think  so.  I  didn't  when  I  proposed  it. 
We  've  only  to  go  there  and  make  a  call  —  " 

"  If  you  had  told  her  the  truth,  Petrie  !  We  can't, 
now  she  doesn't  know  it." 

"  I  shan't  tell  her  what  you  call  the  truth.  It  is  n't 
necessary." 

"  Do  you  mean  you  will  never  tell  her?" 

"  I  shan't  tell  her  yet.  When  she  likes  me — enough 
—  we  can  tackle  things  together.  Do  you  want  me 
to  deal  her  a  blow  like  that  now  and  send  her  off 
at  a  tangent?  Could  you  ask  it?"  He  felt  hot  with 
a  sudden  impatience  to  think  how  he  was  torturing 
her.  At  that  instant  the  anger  was  for  her  because  she 
would  endure  the  torment  when  she  might  so  simply 
prevent  it.  "It  makes  me  furious/'  he  said,  "to  see 
you  sitting  there  so  cold  and  still.  You  don't  know 
what  life  is  and  you  won't  let  anybody  tell  you." 

The  color  flamed  over  her  face  at  the  thought  that 
she  had  once  run  headlong  toward  life  and  it  had 
stabbed  her  through  the  heart.  All  the  rest  of  the 
time  since  the  birth  of  her  son  had  been  like  a  flight 
from  warm  bewilderments.  She  thought  of  her  girl 
hood  and  its  pure  simplicities,  of  its  literal  holding  by 
the  names  of  sacred  things  and  believing  they  would 
vindicate  themselves.  All  that  long  way  since  had  been 
a  path  with  one  hope  lighting  it :  that  the  boy  might 
justify  himself  for  coming  sadly  into  the  world.  But 

240 


THE  WISE  YOUNG  JUDGE 

that  could  only  be  through  great  good  fortune  or  the 
power  of  his  own  will.  There  had  always  been  the 
feeling  that,  if  she  held  her  breath  stoutly  and  worked 
very  hard,  things  might  not  come  out  so  badly  after 
all.  She  was  carrying  the  full  cup  of  her  secret  uplifted 
in  both  hands,  and  it  was  her  son  who  had  jostled  her 
and  rudely  sought  to  make  it  overflow.  Now  he  was 
asking  her  in  a  way  that  made  him  still  more  strange 
to  her, — 

"  Don't  you  ever  want  to  be  happy,  mother  ?  Don't 
you  want  to  laugh  and  sing  and  let  yourself  go  ?  " 

It  was  like  an  onslaught,  but  she  was  patient  under 
it  because  she  knew  why  he  must  make  it.  This  was 
only  the  surface,  the  foaming  crest  of  his  resentment 
against  life  as  it  touched  them  both.  Thyrza  felt 
humbly  that  she  was  indeed  a  poor  companion.  She 
was  not  the  heiress  of  any  corner  of  the  world.  She 
was  a  spendthrift.  All  her  dower  had  gone  before 
she  had  so  much  as  caught  the  sheen  of  the  garments 
it  might  have  bought  for  her.  And  ever  since,  she 
had  been  on  that  long  pilgrimage,  bearing  the  cup  of 
her  knowledge  of  her  life  to  an  unknown  altar —  or 
was  it  to  add  it  to  some  dark  water  of  oblivion  in  a 
wood  ?  Under  the  stimulus  of  his  questions,  her  mind 
was  working  fast.  She  saw  in  processional  beauty 
some  of  the  things  Barton  Gorse  could  give  her :  a 
rich  life  far  from  here,  and,  she  believed,  a  deep  de 
votion.  In  that  moment  she  knew  how  her  spirit  had 
been  welded  to  his  through  his  tender  loyalty,  his  un 
failing  service.  That  seemed  a  discovery  only  second 

241 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

in  importance  to  the  fact  that  her  son  had  brought 
her  to  the  bar,  and  that  she  was  not  answering  him. 
He  was  on  his  feet,  watch  in  hand  with  that  absent 
and  yet  concentrated  look  with  which  a  man  plans 
out  a  hasty  combination. 

"  It 's  no  use,  mother,"  he  said.  "I've  got  to  catch 
the  train." 

"  The  train ?  What  train?  " 

"  The  twelve  o'clock.  I  'm  going  back  to-night." 

"You're  going  back?  Why,  Petrie  —  Petrie  — 
you've  come  to  stay." 

He  looked  unyieldingly,  not  at  her,  but  into  the  fire, 
as  if  he  dared  not  see  her  lest  his  resolution  flag. 

"It  can't  be  done,  mother.  Angelica  will  be  here 
to-morrow.  I  must  telegraph  her  that  I  was  called 
away." 

"  Why  must  you,  dear  ?  "  Her  mind  still  failed  to 
understand  that  he  meant  inexorably  to  follow  out  the 
campaign  which  would,  he  thought,  lead  him  to  his 
love. 

"I  can't  see  her,"  he  repeated.  "I  can't  take  you 
to  her.  I  can't  bring  her  to  you." 

"  Bring  her.  Let  me  go  to  her." 

Thyrza's  moved  face,  haggard  in  its  appeal,  seemed 
to  tell  him  that  he  could  not  possibly  imagine  how 
beautiful  it  would  be  to  her  to  see  the  girl  he  loved. 

"Will  you  let  me  introduce  you — decently?"  he 
was  asking,  with  a  roughness  that  again  told  how 
he  abhorred  his  task.  She  shook  her  head  dumbly. 
"Very  well,  then."  He  snapped  his  watch  and  re- 

242 


THE  WISE  YOUNG  JUDGE 

turned  it  to  his  pocket  with  an  air  of  finality.  "  It 's  no 
use,  mother.  One  of  us  has  got  to  yield  in  this  thing, 
or  —  well,  we  simply  can't  play,  that's  all.  For  the 
present,  I've  got  to  go." 

She  saw  him  step  into  the  entry,  and  heard  him 
take  down  his  great-coat  from  the  nail,  and  knew 
just  how  he  looked  —  how  big  and  adequate — as 
he  shrugged  himself  into  it.  Life,  all  her  conscious 
desires  and  all  her  timid  hopes  of  what  might  be, 
seemed  to  have  stopped  altogether.  Then  he  came  in 
again  and,  hat  in  hand,  stood  before  her. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  in  his  alluring  way,  when  he 
perhaps  did  not  consciously  mean  to  charm  but  could 
not,  by  force  of  his  real  tenderness,  help  charming, 
"  it 's  the  devil  for  us  to  get  to  a  pass  like  this." 

She  put  her  hands  on  the  lapels  of  his  coat  and 
held  them  back  a  little,  as  if  she  meant  to  urge  him 
gently  to  take  the  garment  off.  She  was  not  the 
relinquishing  silent  creature  she  had  been  in  her 
moments  of  endurance.  Thyrza  held  her  head  up  and 
her  brown  eyes  looked  into  his.  The  mother  and  son 
were  at  last  equals.  She  had  given  birth  to  him,  but 
now  he  had  escaped  from  her  into  the  bounds  of  a 
man's  estate.  He  was  not  to  obey  her  any  more,  but 
neither  was  she  to  humor  him. 

"  Petrie,"  she  said,  "  I  never  thought  it  would  come 
like  this." 

"What,  mother?" 

"  Our  talking  this  out.  But  it 's  come." 

"  Yes,  mother,  it 's  come.  Won't  you  stand  by  me?" 

243 


.THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

She  heard  a  great  confusion  of  voices,  reminding 
her,  most  of  them,  of  what  she  had  thought  it  would 
be  to  confront  her  son  at  the  bar  of  his  just  wonders. 
When  she  had  planned  this  moment  she  had  pledged 
herself  to  remember  all  the  iron  calls  to  honor,  the 
strings  that  vibrate  on  battlefields  where  men  see 
and  hear  death  coming.  But  actually  all  she  felt  was 
an  inflexible  obstinacy  and  despair,  the  anguish  of 
knowing  life  was  over  again  in  this  phase  as  com 
pletely  as  her  girlhood's  life  had  been  over  years  ago 
—  and  still  accepting  it. 

"Won't  you  think  of  me?"  he  was  asking  her 
again. 

"  I  do  think  of  you,"  she  answered,  in  a  rage  of 
candor.  "  What  else  am  I  thinking  of?" 

"  Will  you  go  with  me  to  see  her,  as  I  asked  you?  " 

"  No." 

"Will  you  come  with  me  and  let  me  put  you  into 
a  house  of  your  own  and  say  you  are  —  my  mother, 
Mrs.  Tennant?" 

"No." 

"  Good-by,"  said  Petrie.  "  No,  mother,  hang  it !  not 
good-by.  It 's  good-night."  He  stooped  and  kissed 
her  cheek,  and  she  dropped  the  detaining  hands  from 
his  coat. 

Then  he  went  out,  and  she  heard  his  steps  quickly 
on  the  walk  and  the  definitive  clang  of  the  gate. 


THE  GIRL 

J_T  was  a  morning  of  scudding  clouds  and  a  steely 
white-capped  river  when  Thyrza  got  out  of  bed, 
where  she  had  lain  between  a  jaded  sleep  and  wak 
ing,  and  told  herself,  incredulous  yet  convinced,  that 
her  son  had  left  her.  The  counter-shot  to  this,  if  she 
chose  to  be  comforted,  was  that  it  was  only  for  a 
time ;  but  the  inner  self  that  is  wiser  than  all  reason 
knew  better.  The  act  itself  had  been  one  of  those 
leaps  into  a  path  that  leads  away  and  away  from 
what  has  been.  But  no  grieved  and  brooding  wonder 
could  throw  her  out  of  the  regular  habits  of  her  life. 
They  had  been  too  laboriously  fixed.  This  morning 
she  prepared  her  breakfast  as  scrupulously  as  if  she 
had  the  will  to  eat  it,  and  set  out  the  simple  food  on 
a  white  cloth.  When  Thyrza's  son  had  first  left  her  for 
college,  she  had  reminded  herself  that  it  is  easy  to  be 
careless  if  one  lives  alone,  and  that  Petrie,  returning, 
must  find  her  as  fastidious  as  he  had  left  her.  A  hint 
to  her  trained  mind,  meekly  used  to  discipline,  was 
enough.  It  had  obeyed  her  through  all  the  ups  and 
downs  of  appetite  and  no  appetite,  and  kept  fresh 
damask  and  orderly  dishes  the  insignia  of  her  desire 
to  do  well.  Now,  after  she  had  got  the  breakfast,  she 
looked  at  it  in  an  unfriendly  though  not  an  interested 
mood,  and  cleared  it  away.  At  ten  o'clock,  with  all 

245 


THE   STORY  OF   THYRZA 

her  tasks  done,  she  sat  down  by  the  window,  her 
hands  on  her  lap,  and  looked  out  at  the  garden  flut 
tering  back  a  chilled  and  meagre  greeting  to  the 
autumn  sky.  It  was  possible  to  work  about  the  house, 
but  not  to  sew,  because  sewing  was  no  longer  an  act 
in  itself.  It  was  a  chain  of  poignant  memories.  "  I 
have  sewed  him  through  college,"  she  said  aloud.  The 

O  O      ' 

task  was  done,  and  he  had  gone  prosperously  away 
from  her,  and  the  needle  was  as  dreadful  to  her  as 
the  rapier  that,  though  it  has  defended  our  dearest, 
has  drawn  heart's  blood  in  the  thrust. 

In  this  dull  middle  of  the  forenoon,  when  her 
thoughts  ran  back  and  found  no  resting-place,  because 
the  past  seemed  cruel  to  her,  and  panted  forward  and 
found  no  hope,  she  saw  a  woman,  a  slight  creature, 
coming  up  the  garden  walk.  Thyrza  rose  and  went 
to  the  door,  and  there  she  found  one  of  the  smallest, 
most  complete  of  ladies,  and  very  young.  Yet  though 
the  girl  lacked  height,  she  gave  a  curious  impression 
of  dignity.  Perhaps  it  was  her  way  of  holding  her 
head,  all  smooth  golden  hair.  Her  cheeks  were  richly 
blooming  and  her  thick  eyebrows  seemed  to  be  lines 
of  golden  down.  The  eyebrows  looked  to  Thyrza 
quite  the  most  beautiful  thing  the  girl  had,  of  all  her 
splendor  of  equipment.  And  blue  eyes,  wonderful 
blue  eyes  —  she  had  those,  too.  This  little  princess 
of  a  lady  was  dressed  in  dark  blue,  smoothly  fitted, 
with  a  great  deal  of  knowing  lappet  and  braid,  and 
a  white  collar  above  which  her  blond  neck  rose  ex 
quisitely  ;  her  small  hands  were  clad  in  dashing  gloves 

246 


THE   GIRL 


with  gauntlets,  in  a  day  when  gauntlets  were  not  worn. 
Thyrza  did  not  know  the  girl  had  them  made  for  her 
because  she  absurdly  liked  them,  but  they  did  look 
to  her  unusual  and  she  stared  at  them.  The  girl's 
face,  she  saw  at  once,  was  very  quick  to  respond  to 
feeling,  and  something  had  distressed  it.  The  fore 
head,  not  made  for  worry  and  evidently  having  always 
escaped  it,  wrinkled  a  little  over  the  golden  brows. 
She  spoke  at  once,  in  a  quick  way,  as  if  she  could 
give  herself  no  time  to  begin  differently,  and  in  a 
delightful  voice. 

"Are  you  Petrie  Tennant's  mother?" 

Wonder  fell  from  Thyrza  and  gave  place  to  a  most 
happy  certainty.  She,  too,  spoke  impetuously. 

"  You  must  be  Angelica." 

The  girl  was  at  once  inside  and  the  door  had  closed 
behind  her,  and,  because  it  seemed  to  them  at  the  time 
the  most  natural  thing  to  do,  they  were  clinging 
to  each  other  and  crying,  though  in  a  different  way. 
Thyrza  had  broken  down  as  a  repressed  creature  can 
break  when  immutable  necessity  drives,  and  the  girl 
had  only  given  way  for  a  moment  to  a  gust  of  feeling. 
But  with  them  both  it  was  the  recoil  from  the  assault 
of  harsh  discovery.  The  girl  came  first  to  her  com 
posure.  She  pulled  off  her  gauntleted  glove  and  turned 
her  back  on  Thyrza,  looking  out  of  the  window, 
stamping  her  neat  foot  once  or  twice,  as  if  she  hated 
emotion,  and  wiping  her  eyes  ostentatiously,  to  give 
Thyrza  color  and  support  for  the  great  sobs  that  still 
came  welling  up.  Thyrza  began  to  walk  the  floor, 

247 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

crying  as  she  went,  and  once  finding  herself  near  the 
door  that  led  into  her  bedroom,  she  escaped  through 
it  and  there  recovered  her  decent  composure.  When 
she  came  back,  quivering  but  master  of  herself  again, 
Angelica  turned  upon  her  and  smiled  irresistibly. 

"  There  !  "  said  she.  "  Are  you  over  it?  So  am  I. 
Are  n't  we  the  silliest  ?  " 

She  had  put  on  a  wonderful  smile  that  was  a  little 
open,  a  little  candid  of  display  for  e very-day  uses ; 
but  it  was  genuine.  It  perhaps  suggested  the  foot 
lights,  but  Thyrza,  who  did  not  know  that  and  had 
seen  few  beauties  bow  their  recognition  to  a  delighted 
house,  only  felt  that  she  was  all  loveliness  and  a  sun 
shine  she  longed  to  share.  They  sat  down  together, 
though  not  at  a  distance,  each  by  a  window,  where 
Thyrza's  callers  were  accustomed  to  sit  in  reference 
to  her,  but  facing  each  other,  knee  to  knee.  The  girl 
had  willed  it  so,  and  immediately  she  took  Thyrza's 
hands  and  held  them  and  looked  at  them.  Thyrza 
thought  she  was  gazing  curiously  though  kindly,  and 
she  did  not  mind ;  but  she  was  not  prepared  to  have 
the  girl  kiss  one  hand  and  then  the  other.  Angelica 
had  noted  the  worn  nails  (Thyrza  had  done  some 
washing  and  ironing  for  boys,  in  hard  years,  but  that 
was  never  told,  lest  Petrie  should  be  ashamed)  and 
the  pricked  forefinger.  They  were  slender  hands. 
They  were  meant,  by  intention  of  nature,  the  artificer, 
to  be  beautiful,  but  Thyrza  had  thrown  them  into  the 
melting-pot  of  a  great  need,  and  they  had  come  out 
misshapen. 

248 


THE  GIRL 


"You  dear!"  said  Angelica,  as  she  kissed  them. 
She  began  to  talk  rapidly,  with  little  inquiring  glances 
and  dramatic  indicated  gesture.  "Has  he  spoken 
about  me  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Thyrza. 

She  felt  suddenly  quite  happy,  with  old  sorrows 
washed  out  of  her  by  her  tears  and  this  friendly 
creature  beginning  to  talk  about  Petrie. 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"  He  is  very  fond  of  you."  This  was  the  timid  ves 
ture  of  an  overwhelming  fact.  Thyrza  was  a  person 
who  somehow  could  not  mention  the  word  love.  She 
felt  as  if  she  had  offended  it.  Yet  in  shy  moments 
she  believed  it  existed  somewhere,  though  it  had 
mysteriously  appeared  only  to  jeer  at  her. 

The  girl  was  speaking  again. 

"  I  did  n't  mean  to  come  here.  You  know  he  tele 
graphed." 

"  Yes." 

"He  had  promised  to  let  me  meet  you.  But  he 
was  called  away  ?  " 

It  was  not  exactly  a  question,  yet  Thyrza  felt  chal 
lenged  and  interrogated.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the 
girl  had  a  clear  right  to  see  things  exactly  as  they 
were,  and  that  they  must  both  walk  delicately  amid 
this  coil  of  circumstance. 

"  Did  you  mean  to  come  to  see  me,"  the  girl  asked, 
"  if  he  had  n't  been  called  away  ?  " 

"I  wanted  to  come,"  Thyrza  ventured  safely. 

The  girl  seemed  to  put  that  aside  with  a  little  mo- 
249 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

tion  of  her  head,  as  if  it  did  not  carry  half  the  weight 
she  wanted  and  not  indeed  enough  to  count  at  all. 
But  she  was  immersed  in  a  warmer  feeling,  one,  it 
seemed,  that  did  not  affect  Thyrza  immediately  at 
all. 

"  I  came  down  here,"  she  said,  "  to  see  the  violin." 

"  Did  you  see  it  ?  "  Thyrza  ventured,  timidly  wel 
coming  this  as  a  safer  issue. 

She  dismissed  that  with  another  movement  of  her 
head. 

"  It 's  been  painted.  It 's  no  good.  A  beauty  mur 
dered,  that 's  my  impression.  He  's  an  awful  old 


man." 


"  He 's  uncle  to  a  girl  I  used  to  go  to  school  with," 
said  Thyrza,  as  if  that  accounted  for  anything.  "  Her 
name  was  Rosie  May." 

"  He  's  senile,  he 's  half  doting.  I  asked  him  where 
you  lived.  He  told  me  —  oh  ! " 

It  was  a  cry  that  wondered  how  he  dared  to  tell 
her  that  thing  because  she  was  used  to  being  held 
very  precious,  and  men  were  in  the  habit  of  consider 
ing  what  she  would  like  to  hear.  Thyrza  was  looking 
at  her  with  serious  eyes. 

"  I  know,"  she  said  quite  simply.  "  He  told  you 
Petrie  had  no  father." 

The  girl  broke  down  now  and  unaffectedly  let  the 
tears  run  over  her  face. 

"  I  had  to  come  then,"  she  said.  "  I  had  to  see 
you." 

Thyrza  was  regarding  her  from  an  exquisite  state 

250 


THE   GIRL 


of  dignity.  She  looked  as  a  queen  might  wish  to  look 
on  coronation  day. 

"Why,  it's  true,  my  dear,"  she  said.  "It's  all 
true." 

The  girl's  tempestuous  face  told  where  her  thoughts 
were,  with  the  old  man. 

"  The  brute  !  "  she  cried. 

Thyrza's  mind  had  run  back  a  longer  distance. 

"  He  's  Rosie  May's  uncle,"  she  repeated.  "  I  tore 
up  Rosie  May's  play-house." 

The  girl  put  Thyrza's  hands  together  and  left  them 
on  her  knee,  with  a  little  friendly  clasp.  The  blood 
had  run  back  into  her  cheeks.  She  looked  all  passion 
and  demanding  fury. 

"  But  will  you  explain  to  me,"  she  asked,  with 
something  superb  in  her  small  presence,  "  why  it  was 
left  for  a  dreadful  old  man  to  tell  me  this?  " 

Thyrza  was  looking  at  her  still  with  that  meek  dig 
nity.  She  put  the  question  she  had  asked  Petrie  the 
night  before. 

"  Are  you  engaged  ?  " 

"  Engaged  !  "  cried  the  girl,  with  another  stamp 
of  her  mandatory  foot ;  "  why,  he  loves  me.  We 
have  n't  talked  about  being  engaged.  He  adores  me." 

"  Yes,"  said  Thyrza.  She  thought  back  to  the 
night  before.  "  Petrie  adores  you." 

"  He  said  all  the  things  men  say,"  the  girl  was 
going  on,  and  immediately  Thyrza  saw  that  many 
men  had  given  her  page  and  verse  of  the  things  that 
might  be  said.  "  I  thought  he  had  n't  a  secret  —  he 

251 


THE   STORY   OF  THYRZA 

had  n't  a  thought  he  did  n't  beg  to  share  with  me. 
And  now  —  and  now  —  "  With  a  quick  recoil  from 
the  rush  of  her  own  emotion  she  saw  how  hideous 
it  was  to  stand  there  battling  upon  the  shield  of 
the  other  woman's  unmoved  endurance.  "  Oh  !  "  she 
cried,  "  I  'm  a  cruel  little  beast !  " 

Thyrza  had  put  herself  out  of  the  question. 

"  You  think  Petrie  deceived  you  ?  "  she  temporized. 

"  Didn't  he  deceive  me?  "  the  girl  threw  back. 

"Yes.  But  think  —  think  what  it  meant  to  him. 
He  has  n't  anything  behind  his  own  record  to  offer 
you,  anything  untarnished,  anything  clean  —  "  She 
was  forsaking  her  own  post,  and  going  over  to  Pe- 
trie's  to  fight  for  him,  no  matter  what  the  arguments 
were,  so  they  might  win. 

"  Hasn't  anything  to  offer  me !  "  flashed  the  girl. 
"Has n't  he  you?" 

A  flush  swept  over  Thyrza's  face,  and  unconsciously 
she  put  her  head  up  in  the  old  habit  of  her  girlhood. 
There  was  something  in  the  girl,  some  simple  reckless 
daring,  that  bade  her  take  courage  and  assert  her 
self. 

"  You  see  I  believe  in  you  down  to  the  ground," 
Angelica  was  saying.  "  I  'd  only  to  see  you  to  do 
that.  And  I  had  to  see  you." 

Thyrza,  breathing  fast,  approached  her. 

"  What  shall  I  tell  you  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  About  yourself  ?  Nothing." 

"  What  the  old  man  told  you  was  true.  I  am  not 
married.  I  have  not  seen  Petrie's  father  since  my 

252 


THE   GIRL 


son's  birth.  If  I  am  fortunate,  I  shall  die  without 
seeing  him." 

The  girl,  a  hand  lifted,  was  warning  her. 

"  Don't  go  on.  Why  do  you  want  to  rip  yourself 
to  pieces  and  tear  these  things  out  for  me?  I  don't 
want  them.  Darling  lady,  give  me  a  kiss  and  stop 
your  poor  heart's  bleeding." 

Nobody,  out  of  books,  had  ever  told  Thyrza  that 
the  slow  throb  and  pain  she  had  felt  for  so  many 
years  seemed  to  them  also  like  the  dropping  of  the 
heart's  blood.  That  was  what  she  called  it  to  herself. 

"  But,"  Angelica  went  on,  with  a  renewed  dash, 
"  why  did  Petrie  lie  to  me  ?  " 

"I  told  you  — " 

"  I  know  !  I  know  !  "  she  conceded  vehemently. 
"  But  he  can't  lie  to  me.  He  shan't.  I  won't  be  lied 
to."  She  seemed  then,  by  one  of  her  bewildering 
turns  that  were  like  the  flight  of  wings,  to  put  her 
own  emotions  suddenly  aside,  to  conduct  Thyrza  alone 
to  a  bright  open  field.  Thyrza  at  once  felt  the  lens 
turned  on  her,  supplementing  a  kindly  eye  which  was 
nevertheless  about  to  force  her  to  account  for  herself 
in  a  way  she  never  had  before.  The  world,  the  one 
full  of  blooms  and  birds  and  rivers  flowing  vocally, 
was  asking  her  all  at  once  what  she  had  done  for  it. 
Had  she  joined  any  of  its  gay  responses,  or  had  she 
let  fall  the  curtain  of  her  heart  so  that  light  could 
hardly  filter  in  and  no  light  could  get  out?  The 
silver  interrogation  made  her  feel  like  a  rock  in  a 
barren  pasture.  She  had  been  still ;  she  had  done 

253 


THE   STORY  OF   THYRZA 

no  more.    The  girl's  lips  followed  the  query  her  eyes 
began. 

"  You  dear,"  she  said,  in  a  soft  reproachful  won 
der,  "  you  've  never  had  any  fun."  Thyrza  had  done 
crying,  but  her  inward  response  to  that  was  a  threat 
ening  of  tears.  "  You  've  never  had  any  pleasures, 
any  of  the  things  that  just  keep  the  rest  of  us 
alive." 

That  accounted  for  her,  Thyrza  thought.  When 
she  saw  the  girl,  when  she  breathed  her  air,  she  be 
came  achingly  aware  of  a  life  she  herself  had  never 
known,  all  fleeting  experience,  some  of  it  in  foreign 
lands,  some  scarcely  remembered  because  it  had  been 
so  multitudinous  and  swift,  of  perfumes  and  idle 
hours  and  the  languid  sense  that  life  is  rich  enough 
to  afford  a  million  other  things  besides  to-day's. 

"  You  've  had  nothing,  nothing,"  Angelica  was 
insisting. 

"  I  have  had  my  son." 

"  Yes,  but  you  've  sat  here  and  worked  for  him. 
You  have  n't  let  life  gallop  away  with  you." 

Thyrza's  instant  response  within  herself  was  that 
she  trusted  the  hobby-horse  of  habit  more  than  the 
chariot  of  the  sun.  Angelica  knew  at  once  what  she 
would  have  said. 

"  That 's  precisely  it,"  she  concurred,  as  if  it  were 
commonplace  to  understand  perfectly.  "  Of  course 
you  're  afraid.  What  would  be  the  sense  of  being 
galloped  away  with,  if  there  was  n't  some  fear  to  go 
with  it  ?  What  have  you  wanted  most  ?  " 

254 


THE   GIRL 


Thyrza  smiled  at  her  little  old  self. 

"  Once  I  wanted  a  piano." 

"  Did  you  get  it  ?  " 

"  No.'; 

"  Do  you  want  it  now  ?  " 

Thyrza  looked  down  at  her  worn  hands  with  all 
their  muscles  tightened. 

"  No,"  she  said. 

"  I  '11  bet  you  don't !  "  Angelica  looked  as  if  she 
could  cry  again  those  angry  tears.  "  You  don't  want 
anything,  but  to  see  that  long-legged  loon  of  yours, 
that  well-fed,  groomed,  shaven  young  prince  of  the 
blood  get  all  he  wants.  But  he  won't,  not  without 
working  for  it.  I  tell  you  that." 

Thyrza  said  the  audacious  thing  that  came  into  her 
mind. 

"  Won't  he  get  you  ?  " 

Angelica,  her  hands  on  her  knee,  waited  a  long 
time,  thinking.  At  last,  speaking,  she  seemed  to  give 
every  word  the  weight  it  had  gained  while  she  fash 
ioned  it. 

"  There  is  just  one  way  for  him  to  get  me.  You 
will  not  tell  him  I  have  been  here.  You'll  promise  me 
that  before  I  leave.  I  shall  go  back  to  my  uncle's  and 
sail  for  France  as  fast  as  I  can  sail.  I  shall  leave 
Petrie  no  word.  I  shall  send  him  no  address.  He  will 
come  and  find  me." 

Thyrza's  answer  amazed  and  pleased  her. 

"  Yes.  That  will  be  right." 

Angelica's  eyes  gave  bright  response. 

255 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

"  Good  !  I  did  n't  expect  that  of  you.  I  thought 
you  'd  say,  c  Give  him  his  sugar-plum.' ' 

"  No."  Thyrza  shook  her  head.  "  I  have  n't  always 
given  him  the  sugar-plums  he  cried  for." 

"  The  better  for  him.  He  never  '11  get  them  from 
me.  I  don't  believe  in  romantic  love,  my  lady.  You 
might  as  well  understand  that  now."  She  looked  as 
if  she  did  believe  in  rebellion  for  the  sake  of  rebelling, 
a  thousand  warring  feats  that  make  life  hot  and  va 
riable.  Thyrza  learned  suddenly  then  that  there  might 
be  complicated  young  women  of  a  vast  experience 
of  whom  her  secluded  life  had  given  her  no  under 
standing.  "  Now  do  you  believe  in  it  —  romantic 
love  ?  "  The  girl  was  challenging  her  with  a  sudden 
tardy  sense  of  the  question's  cruelty. 

66  Romantic  love ! "  Thyrza  repeated  the  words, 
awed  and  timid  at  the  sound  of  them.  What  did  they 
recall  to  her  but  the  memory  of  a  throng  of  nebulous 
emotions,  all  belief,  all  ecstasy,  her  response  to  life 
when  it  played  upon  her  as  the  winds  play  on  the 
pine?  Now  she  would  have  said  it  was  being  patheti 
cally  lost  to  a  sense  of  all  realities. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what  you  need,"  Angelica  was  saying. 
She  laughed  now  as  if  neither  of  them  had  an  appre 
hension  of  a  care.  "  You  need  a  girl  chum.  You  be 
my  chum,  Petrie's  mother.  Will  you  ?  " 

Thyrza  was  bewildered  by  the  sound  of  it. 

"  I  don't  believe  I  ever  did  have  an  intimate  friend," 
she  said.  "  There  's  my  sister.  But  we  were  separated 
early.  No.  I  never  had  an  intimate  friend." 

256 


THE   GIRL 


"  I  '11  be  your  intimate  friend.  You  let  me." 

"  But  I  'm  Petrie's  mother." 

"  Petrie  be  hanged.  No  !  no  !  Don't  look  like  that. 
He  shan't  be  hanged.  But  Petrie 's  got  to  do  a  lot  o£ 
pilgrimage  before  we  can  be  absolutely  sure  of  his  not 
being  hanged.  We  won't  think  of  him.  We  can't 
afford  to.  Women  folks  go  on  adventures  now.  They 
don't  stop  to  mull  over  men  all  the  time.  Besides,  we 
like  him  too  much." 

"  You  do  care  about  him  ! "  cried  Thyrza,  in  a 
transport. 

"  Did  you  doubt  it  ?  "  The  laughing  lips  were  set 
and  the  eyes  brooded. 

Thyrza  immediately  thought  she  had  discovered 
something. 

"I  guess,"  she  said  gently,  "you  do  believe  in 
love." 

Angelica  was  looking  straight  at  her  now,  and  there 
dwelt  a  soft  brightness  in  her  eyes. 

"You've  found  me  out,  haven't  you?"  she  said, 
very  simply.  "  Well,  chummie,  don't  you  tell.  I  don't 
say  much  about  it  myself."  She  threw  that  issue  aside, 
as  if  it  could  not  be  touched  on  again  in  a  very  long 
time.  "  Come  abroad  with  me." 

Thyrza  smiled  and  shook  her  head. 

"  I  've  lots  of  money,"  said  the  girl. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Thyrza.  "  Then  that 's  another  reason 
why  he  must  n't  have  you,  not  till  he  has  money  of 
his  own." 

Angelica  nodded  her  head  with  an  equal  wisdom. 
257 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

"  I  suppose  that 's  true,"  said  she.  "  I  never  thought 
of  it  before.  You  see  how  necessary  a  mother  is.  I 
feel  lots  older  than  he,  older  than  you,  really.  If  you 
are  his  mother,  I  shall  have  to  be  his  grandmother. 
Poor  Petrie!  he'll  have  to  toe  the  line.  It's  very 
dull,  though,  isn't  it?" 

"What  is  dull?" 

Her  opulent  eyes,  rich  in  such  surprises  of  mirth  and 
other  changefulness,  glowed  and  then  almost  shut 
with  excess  of  being  pleased. 

"  Dull  to  stop  to  think  of  things.  Dull  not  to  say, 
<  Why,  yes,  Petrie,  here  's  money.  Dip  both  hands  in. 
Come  to  Paris,  come  to  Vienna.'  "  She  drew  her  face 
into  a  charming  seriousness.  "  But  we  must  consider 
the  good  of  the  child." 

"  Are  you  going  abroad  to  study  ?  "  asked  Thyrza. 

"  Yes.  To  study,  to  play.  I  play  the  fiddle,  you 
know.  I  play  in  public  and  folks  bow  down  and  kiss 
my  instep.  If  I  had  my  fiddle  here  I  could  play  the 
heart  out  of  your  breast.  That 's  what  the  London 
paper  said  I  did." 

"  Are  you  going  alone  ?  " 

"  Yes,  so  to  speak.  With  my  maid.  It  makes  auntie 
and  uncle  —  " 

"ThePutnams?" 

"Yes." 

"  Petrie  spoke  of  them." 

"  It  makes  them  shudder.  But  they  can't  help  it." 
Again  she  drew  her  face  into  a  sad  oval.  "  Auntie 
thinks  I  shall  be  spoken  to." 

258 


THE   GIRL 


"  I  should  think  you  would  be/'  said  Thyrza,  with 
an  involuntary  gush  of  admiration. 

"  Why,  I  am  !  That 's  what  I  live  for.  I  speak  my 
self,  to  stewards  and  things.  I  have  hosts  of  friends 
among  what  auntie  calls  the  lower  classes.  '  Those 
people '  she 's  named  them  !  What  should  I  know 
about  life,  if  I  stayed  shut  up  in  a  bureau  drawer? 
That  's  where  auntie  lives,  swathed  in  rolls  upon  rolls 
of  jeweler's  cotton.  But  the  moths  get  at  her..  I  can 
tell  her  that.  She  's  terribly  riddled." 

"  I  have  two  friends  living  abroad,"  said  Thyrza. 
She  had  an  impulse  to  tell  something,  anything.  In 
this  warm  atmosphere  of  ready  approval  she  felt  the 
petals  of  her  heart  uncurling.  She  had  told  God  a 
great  many  things  in  all  these  years,  some  of  them  wild 
with  anguish  and  some  timidly  thankful  that  He  had 
dealt  no  worse  with  her ;  but  it  would  be  an  exquisite 
thing,  like  putting  a  tired  head  on  a  kind  bosom,  to 
give  some  of  her  secrets  to  a  warm,  soft  hand. 

"Man  or  woman?"  Angelica  asked.  One  of  her 
charms,  one  that  you  felt  would  wear  and  was  not 
fleetingly  exhibited  for  the  sake  of  earning  praise,  was 
an  immediate  and  strict  attention  to  what  you  were 
saying. 

"  One  is  a  woman,"  Thyrza  answered.  "  Her  name  is 
Margaret  Petrie.  She  lives  in  Florence." 

Angelica  saw  that  Margaret  Petrie  was  not  the 
actual  pivot  of  the  confidence. 

"  Petrie  was  named  for  her,"  she  guessed.  "  I  'm 
glad  you  told  me.  Anything  about  the  child  —  we 

259 


THE   STORY   OF  THYRZA 

must  n't  forget  he  is  our  joint-stock  baby  —  the  most 
inconsiderable  things  —  add  to  my  data  for  dealing 
with  him.  Does  she  write  to  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  but  not  regularly.  That  would  n't  be 
like  her.  But  they  're  splendid  letters.  And  she  never 
changes." 


"  She  's  older  than  you  are  ?  " 


"  Ever  so  much.  I  never  saw  anybody  so  gay.  She 
says   Florence  is   the   paradise  of   the   middle-aged 


woman." 


"  Who  's  the  other  friend  ? "  asked  Angelica. 
"  That 's  a  man." 

"  What  things  you  know ! "  Thyrza  laughed  for 
pleasure  in  the  audacious  wisdom  of  her. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  guess.  So  it  is  a  man." 

Thyrza  began  and  told  the  story  of  Barton  Gorse : 
how  he  had  taught  her  when  she  was  a  little  girl  and 
he  was  a  youth,  and  how  he  had  gone  abroad  to  live 
with  his  uncle,  and  how  he  wrote  her  twice  a  week. 
"  That 's  his  last  letter,"  she  said,  pointing  to  a  thick 
envelope  on  the  table.  "  I  have  n't  read  it.  Petrie 
read  one  of  his  letters  last  night.  He  liked  it." 

"  Silly,  to  make  over  your  letters  to  Petrie !  I 
shan't  give  him  mine."  Then  she  became  aware  that 
there  was  more  in  this  than  met  the  first  apprehen 
sion,  and  began  guessing  again.  "  I  dare  say  Petrie 
fumed  about  him.  I  'm  watching  you,  chummie.  Tell 
the  truth.  Did  he  fume?" 

"  I  had  never  told  him  much  about  Barton  Gorse," 
Thyrza  temporized.  "  Yes,  I  let  him  see  the  letter." 

260 


THE   GIRL 


"  Petrie  's  a  jealous  dog.  He  '11  have  to  get  over 
it  —  partially.  That  will  be  a  delicate  matter.  He 
must  get  over  the  manifestation,  not  the  disposition. 
The  disposition  is  delicious.  It 's  a  spur,  to  violets 
and  devotion.  Dear  lady,  Barton  Gorse  is  in  love  with 
you." 

"  He  asks  me  to  marry  him,"  said  Thyrza,  quite 
simply.  "  He  has  asked  me  a  great  many  times." 

"  Then  why  in  the  world  don't  you  do  it  ?  You  could 
live  abroad,  and  go  to  Florence  and  see  your  Margaret 
Petrie,  and  have  spasms  in  the  National  Gallery,  and 
confront  Mona  Lisa  on  her  own  ground,  and  read 
Taine.  That 's  what  you  'd  love,  blessed  child." 

All  this  Thyrza  could  see  was  not  what  Angelica 
herself  would  love  in  an  old-world  pageant,  but  it  had 
no  touch  of  satire. 

"I  couldn't  have  gone  abroad,  even  if  I  mar 
ried,"  she  said.  "I  had  Petrie." 

"  But  you  have  n't  Petrie  now.  He 's  going  to 
wander.  And  anyway  you  could  leave  him  with  me 
—  with  his  grandmother." 

Thyrza  looked  her  friend  in  the  eyes. 

"You  wouldn't  have  me  marry  a  man  if  I  did 
n't  —  "  she  hesitated. 

"Love  him?  No,  by  my  good  right  hand  and  my 
fiddle-bow.  But  let 's  see,  dear  daughter,  what  love  is." 

"  In  the  first  place  it  is  n't  for  women  as  old  as  I, 
women  with  grown-up  sons.  And  it  is  n't  for  women 
just  like  me." 

Angelica  was  reflecting. 

261 


THE   STORY  OF   THYRZA 

" I  guess,"  she  said  at  length,  "you'd  better  go 
abroad  with  me.  You  'd  better  let  me  get  you  into  a 
velvet  gown  and  a  picture-hat,  and  drive  in  the  Bois 
behind  a  pair,  and  go  to  a  battle  of  flowers,  and  pelt 
unknown  Frenchmen  with  roses,  and  be  spoken  to  in 
the  rue  de  la  Paix  because  you  're  so  handsome,  and 
have  to  ask  a  gendarme  to  walk  a  block  with  you  to 
protect  you.  What  I  shall  have  to  do,  chummie,  is  to 
pump  the  breath  of  life  into  you." 

Thyrza  had  to  laugh. 

"  But  it 's  not  my  kind  of  life,"  she  demurred.  "  I  'm 
just  a  dull  country-woman  that,  when  she  was  a  girl, 
expected  a  good  many  things  that  never  came  true." 

"  You  're  very  handsome."  Angelica  was  still  star 
ing  at  her  with  a  knowing  eye.  "  A  picture-hat  would 
turn  you  into  a  raving  beauty.  I  '11  bet  you  wear  a 
bonnet." 

"Yes." 

"  I  '11  bet  it 's  got  strings." 

"Narrow  ones,"  said  Thyrza  humbly. 

"  And  you  take  off  the  flowers  every  two  years  and 
make  the  milliner  give  them  another  cant,  and  you 
call  it  trimmed.  Auntie  does.  She  wears  a  bunch  of 
lilac.  It  was  gathered  in  Paris  when  she  was  a  girl, 
and  she  believes  in  it  as  she  does  in  the  Louvre." 

There  was  something  in  Thyrza's  face,  a  mute 
protest  that  could  not  make  itself  vocal.  Angelica 
saw  it,  and  her  tongue  was  holden. 

"  0  you  darling  !  Yes,  I  know,"  she  cried  then,  beside 
herself  with  shame.  "  You  've  furnished  Petrie's  rooms 

262 


THE   GIRL 


at  college,  and  you'd  have  worn  a  coal-scuttle  to  do  it. 
But  that 's  past  and  gone,  and  you've  got  to  have  a 
picture-hat." 

Thyrza  was  willing  enough  to  leave  this  issue, 
exciting  as  it  sounded. 

"  I  have  n't  asked  you  to  take  off  your  hat,"  she 
said.  "  But  I  wish  you  'd  stay." 

"  Petrie  won't  be  back  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Then  I'll  stay  to  luncheon.  Afterwards  I  '11  tele 
phone  auntie  I  'm  starting  for  New  York ;  so  if 
Petrie  calls  there  he  '11  be  thrown  off  the  track." 

To  Thyrza,  it  was  criminal  to  say  you  were  going 
to  New  York  and  then  sit  down  cosily  on  the  spot 
and  eat  a  luncheon  untinged  by  bitterness.  If  she  had, 
in  stress  of  temptation,  said  she  was  going  to  New 
York,  she  would  have  felt  obliged  to  go,  or  run 
confessing  her  lie  all  over  the  place.  But  she  had  a 
bewildered  conviction  that  this  little  creature,  as 
sparkling  as  a  bird  in  a  spring  suit  of  sheeny  feathers, 
and  as  good  and  harmless,  she  was  sure,  had  a  code 
of  different  rules  in  her  pockets,  —  rules  personally 
applied  for  and  furnished  under  the  restriction  that 
they  must  not  be  loaned.  Angelica  was  still  studying 
her  points  with  a  frank  intentness. 

"You  see,"  she  announced,  "  the  lines  in  your  face 
all  help  it.  They  give  you  a  kind  of  haggard  beauty,  — 
Oh,  you  're  splendid  !  " 

Thyrza  had  to  recognize  that  she  was  fluttered  by 
this  reversal  of  her  own  verdicts.  It  was  exciting,  as 

263 


THE   STORY  OF  THYRZA 

if  she  had  years  ago  put  aside  a  dull  ornament,  and 
a  clever  hand  had  taken  it  out  and  held  it  to  the  light 
and  declared  that  some,  at  least,  could  see  it  flash. 

"  I  must  get  dinner,"  she  said,  with  an  accompany 
ing  practical  wonder  as  to  what  dish  was  good  enough. 
"  You  take  your  things  off." 

Angelica  was  pulling  out  a  hat-pin.  She  did  even 
that  with  a  grace  Thyrza  found  enchanting. 

"  I  '11  stay  all  night  if  you  '11  ask  me." 

"  Why  !  "  said  Thyrza.  She  stopped,  with  her  table 
cloth  half  out  of  the  drawer.  "  Seems  as  if  nothing 
so  pleasant  ever  did  happen  in  this  world." 

"  You  could  lend  me  a  nightie.  You  're  sure  Petrie 
won't  come  ?  " 

Thyrza  stopped  on  her  way  to  the  dresser. 

"  Why,"  she  breathed,  «  there  's  Petrie  now  !  " 

Angelica  made  one  light  bound  to  the  other  side  of 
the  room,  the  farthest  from  the  window. 

"Where?" 

"  Coming  down  the  street." 

"  I  must  go." 

"  You  '11  meet  him.  Oh,  stay  and  meet  him  here  !  " 

"  He  's  not  to  know  I  Ve  been  here.  You  're  not 
to  tell  him.  Promise." 

"  I  did  promise.  But,  oh !  —  " 

"  Is  n't  there  a  back  door  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"And  a  back  street?"  She  was  through  the  door 
in  the  speaking,  standing  on  the  step,  pinning  her 
hat  again,  the  keen  air  from  the  river  blowing  more 

264 


THE   GIRL 


color  into  her  flushed  face.  Thyrza,  shaken  by  an 
anticipatory  pang  at  the  losing  of  her,  was  sorry  for 
Petrie  with  a  double  passion. 

"  There  's  a  path  along  the  river."  She  was  point 
ing  it  out.  "  After  a  while  take  the  street  at  your 
right.  But  it 's  cruel  to  him  —  " 

"  No,  it  is  n't,"  said  the  girl.  "  Step  down  here 
where  I  can  kiss  you.  It 's  no  more  cruel  than  you 
were  when  you  took  him  out  of  petticoats.  Petrie  's 
got  to  grow  up.  Good-by,  you  blessed  child.  You 
shall  have  the  picture-hat,  and  we  '11  flaner  yet  in 
Paris.  Good-by,  you  dear." 

Thyrza,  the  touch  of  the  fresh  lips  warm  on  hers, 
stood  watching  the  little  figure  running  along  the 
river-path  like  a  child  scudding  there  for  fun.  As  she 
sometimes  did  when  she  was  alone,  —  for  she  had  an 
unchangeable  devotion  to  purity  of  language  in  pub 
lic,  —  she  returned  to  her  mother's  colloquial  tongue, 
when  she  was  moved.  "My  soul!"  she  whispered. 
"  My  soul !  "  Then  she  heard  the  front  door  shut,  and 
Petrie  calling  her.  She  ran  in,  lest  he  should  find  her 
there  and  see  also  the  flying  figure  on  the  river-path. 
Petrie  met  her  in  his  rapid  walk  to  the  back  of  the 
house,  and  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

"  Mother,"  he  said.  "  I  'm  an  awful  bounder  !  " 

There  had  been  times  when  Thyrza  would  have 
luxuriated  in  protestations  and  soft  remorse  because 
they  were  signs  of  love,  but  her  high  heart  was  wholly 
now  with  the  little  figure  fleeing  along  the  river  and 
the  probability  of  its  being  seen.  She  seemed,  in  the 

265 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

hour  of  her  talk  with  Angelica,  to  have  transferred 
her  devotion  from  Petrie  to  Petrie  and  his  love.  She 
hugged  Petrie,  not  so  much  in  the  warmth  he  had 
expected  but  with  a  canny  desire  to  hold  him  while 
Angelica  got  away. 

"  You  were  a  good  boy  to  come  back/'  she  said  at 
last,  releasing  him. 

He  was  throwing  off  his  coat.  He  stopped  with  it 
ready  to  be  deposited,  a  quick  flush  in  his  face. 

"  Who  's  been  here?"  he  said.  "I  smell  violets.  I 
smelled  them  the  minute  I  came  in." 

Thyrza  drew  out  the  table  and  began  to  spread  the 
cloth. 

"There  aren't  any  violets  here,  unless  you've 
brought  them  with  you." 

She,  too,  flushed.  A  daring  light  came  into  her  eyes. 
She  knew  in  that  moment  that,  if  the  crucial  question 
came,  if  he  said  to  her  in  plain  words,  "  Has  Angelica 
been  here?"  she  should  answer  "no."  The  girl  had 
given  her  a  sense  that  certain  things  must  be  done ; 
it  was  necessary  to  do  them  and  take  your  moral 
chances.  Thyrza  had  not  felt  her  blood  so  move  for 
years.  But  he  had  laid  down  his  coat  and  his  hat  with 
it,  as  if  his  time  were  limited.  His  air  of  a  casual  vis 
itor  impressed  her,  and  she  was  about  to  ask  him  if 
he  had  not  come  for  his  two  days,  when  he  spoke  out 
bluntly :  — 

"  Only  a  bite  for  me.  I  'm  off  this  afternoon.  To 
morrow  I  shall  be  in  New  York,  and  sail  for  the 
Philippines." 

266 


THE   GIRL 


She  had  started  up  the  fire  with  little  sticks,  but 
this  arrested  her. 

"  You've  changed  your  plans/'  she  hurried. 

"  They  've  been  changed  for  me.  I  'm  told  off  to  be 
sent  there  to  do  some  special  work.  I  'd  only  time  to 
see  you  and  do  one  thing  more.  I  've  got  to  see  her, 
too." 

"  Angelica."  She  did  not  say  it  interrogatively,  but 
as  if  Angelica  were  one  of  the  accepted  facts. 

He  nodded. 

"I  posted  down  here  and  went  to  old  Wright's. 
She  had  been  there  and  gone.  I  shall  find  her  at  the 
Putnams'  this  afternoon." 

Would  he  find  her  ?  Thyrza  hoped  so,  with  an  ach 
ing  heart,  because,  having  seen  her  bright  beauty,  she 
knew  how  desolate  it  would  be  not  to  see  it  shining, 
if  one  expected  it. 

"  I  've  wired  her,"  he  pursued. 

Then  he  would  not  find  her.  He  was  giving  her 
time  to  be  away,  in  New  York  on  her  flight  to  Europe, 
or  in  a  dozen  hiding-places  her  swift  progresses  must 
have  left  ready  for  her.  Now  Thyrza's  loyalty  shifted, 
and  went  over  to  her  son.  She  longed,  with  a  beating 
heart,  to  urge  him  to  go  now,  before  the  girl  had  time 
to  flee  him.  It  was  as  if  they  two,  she  and  Petrie, 
were  mercifully  pursuing  some  loved  animal  of  the 
hearth  for  benevolent  purposes,  and  she  could  put  her 
hand  on  Petrie's  arm  and  whisper,  "  See !  there  in 
that  bush."  And  then  the  little  creature  of  the  wild 
impulses  and  the  domestic  heart  would  be  caught  and 

267 


THE   STORY   OF  THYRZA 

stroked  into  acquiescence,  and  presently  she  would  be 
warm  by  the  fireside,  having  only  her  wild  dash  for 
liberty  to  dream  of.  But  a  keen  intelligence  held  her 
back.  She  had  a  saving  consciousness  that  Angelica 
and  Petrie  were  different  beings  from  herself,  and 
that  they  must  make  the  laws  of  their  own  world.  She 
had  nurtured  him  and  trained  his  baby  mind.  But  the 
world  was  another  world  from  the  one  she  had  known 
in  her  own  youth  and  that,  in  her  days  of  retirement 
here,  she  had  never  been  able  to  forget.  She  saw  it 
in  the  boys  who  came  to  her  to  do  their  little  tasks. 
Youth  now,  all  youth,  seemed  to  be  what  only  luxu 
rious  youth  born  to  money  and  pleasures  had  been  in 
her  day.  Young  conquerors  conquered  early.  Even 
the  market-place  was  full  of  Alexanders.  To  be  young 
was  an  inheritance  of  itself.  They  must  play  their  own 
game,  these  two  inheritors. 

"  When  are  you  coming  back  ?  "  she  safely  asked. 

"  From  the  Philippines  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  When  my  job  is  done.  It 's  a  big  thing,  mother. 
And  I  want  the  dough." 

"The  dough?" 

Thyrza  frowned,  but  only  with  perplexity.  She  had 
never  got  used  to  a  young  college  man  who  had  ac 
cess  to  the  classics,  dealing  in  the  slang  of  the  street. 
Petrie  laughed  out,  as  he  always  did  at  her  inno 
cences,  but  it  was  absently. 

"  Money,  old  lady.  I  want  money." 

"  Of  course."  She  craved  it  for  him,  more,  even, 

268 


THE   GIRL 


she  half  guessed,  than  he  wanted  it  himself.  For  he 
in  the  conquering  way  of  youth,  which  had  somehow 
lost  the  old-fashioned  ideals,  like  a  worn  wallet  full 
of  foreign  gold  that  had  no  daily  value  now  but  only 
a  vague  preciousness,  might  feel  that  it  was  not  be 
neath  him  to  take  a  dowered  bride.  "  I  want  you  to 
have  it/'  she  went  on.  "I  want  you  to  be  able  to  have 
money  —  and  a  home."  Over  the  last  word  she  trem 
bled.  It  seemed  as  if  it  might  bring  down  on  her  the 
clatter  of  the  discussion  that  had  parted  them  yester 
day,  as  if  one  dragged  manacles  from  a  shelf.  But 
he  answered  very  seriously  and  gently. 

"  I  want  it,  too,  marmie.  We  '11  see  what  I  can  do." 
They  talked  no  more  of  anything  that  could  recall 
their  difference  or  suggest  Angelica.  Once  he  laughed 
out,  at  the  table,  and  spoke  shamefacedly,  as  if  on  the 
brink  of  a  confidence  too  tender  to  be  shared.  "  Funny, 
how  I  smelled  violets !  But  I  suppose  I  'm  always 
doing  it.  I  'm  always  thinking  —  "  He  paused  there 
abruptly,  and  Thyrza  knew  he  was  always  thinking 
of  Angelica,  with  the  ache  of  love,  and  wondering 
what  breeze  might  waft  him  news  of  her.  She  consid 
ered  it  in  wonder,  and  then  put  it  aside,  as  she  often 
did  intimate  and  moving  things,  to  muse  over  when 
she  should  be  alone.  It  was  amazing  to  her  that  two 
young  and  beautiful  creatures  like  these  should  be 
loving  each  other  with  no  bar  to  thinking  each  other  as 
fine  as  they  were.  To  her  bruised  and  aching  sense, 
what  is  called  love  had  been,  when  she  dared  define 
it,  a  state  in  which  the  eyes  were  dazzled.  The  plain 

269 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

could  glitter  for  that  one  masquerade,  and  beauty,  in 
her  pathetic  turn,  could  find  her  image  in  the  beast. 
But  these  two  were  really  the  prince  and  princess. 
Their  dream  was  a  reality. 

"What  you  thinking  about,  old  lady?"  asked 
Petrie.  They  had  risen  from  the  table  and  she  stood 
for  a  moment,  her  hand  on  her  chair,  looking  at  him. 
Thyrza  shook  her  head,  smiling,  and  judging  that  the 
tears  in  her  eyes  were  not  heavy  enough  to  be  wiped 
away.  If  she  left  them  in  a  pool,  he  might  not  notice 
them.  Petrie  came  round  the  table  and,  his  arm  over 
her  shoulder  as  if  she  had  been  another  boy,  bent  his 
face  to  her. 

"  You  're  the  dearest  old  girl,"  he  said.  His  voice 
was  broken  with  what  he  felt  and  his  impatience 
at  expressing  it.  "  I  would  n't  hurt  you  for  a  million 
dollars." 

"  Go  and  get  her,  Petrie,"  she  uttered  hastily,  for 
all  answer.  "  Love  her,  be  true  to  her,  make  her  marry 

you." 

He  selected  the  tiny  phrase  that  had  cost  her  most 
to  say. 

"  Be  true  to  her  ?  Bet  your  life,  mother.  But  there  's 
no  temptation —  "  he  laughed,  triumphantly,  "not 
to  be  true  to  such  a  girl." 

"Maybe  not,"  said  Thyrza  humbly.  "But  you  be 
true."  ' 

Then  he  gave  her  what  they  used  to  call  the  cinna 
mon  bear's  hug,  when  he  was  about  two  feet  high  and 
used  to  sit  in  her  lap.  It  was  the  nicest  hug  of  all,  and 

270 


THE   GIRL 


so  it  was  called  cinnamon.  The  black  bear's  hug  was 
ponderous  and  slow,  the  grizzly's  came  when  you  had 
been  out  skating  and  were  impatient  to  do  a  lot  of 
things,  and  mother  wanted  you  to  hug  her  before  you 
could  even  start  doing  them.  But  the  cinnamon  bear's 
hug  belonged  to  the  twilighty  times  when  you  were 
sleepy,  a  little  thoughtful  over  the  selection  of  bed 
time  stories,  and  soaked  through  with  the  certainty  that 
mother  was  the  fount  of  blessings. 

He  went  away,  and  Thyrza  watched  him,  and  at  the 
top  of  the  street  he  turned  and  waved  his  hand  to 
her.  "  Good-by  !  "  she  said  under  her  breath.  She  and 
Petrie  together  had  left  one  more  of  the  countries  of 
life  for  other  territory.  This  was  a  special  farewell, 
not  because  he  was  going  to  the  Philippines,  but 
because  she  was  giving  him  to  Angelica.  She  went 
back  into  the  room  that  looked  doubly  lonely  since 
they  had  both  gone  out  of  it,  and  yet  was  different 
somehow  for  having  framed  Angelica  and  her  breath 
of  violets,  and  found  the  one  friendliest  thing  in  it, 
—  the  letter  lying  on  the  table.  She  touched  it  with 
an  endearing  hand.  "  Old  friend!  "  her  heart  said,  and 
her  lips  were  smiling.  She  sat  down  and  read  it  through, 
and  found  at  the  end  a  little  sentence  made  of  quiet 
words.  Barton  Gorse  was  coming  home  now,  to  marry 
her. 


XI 

A  KNIGHT  PEERLESS 

JJARTON  GORSE  came,  following  on  his  letter  as  fast 
as  ship  could  sail.  Thyrza  had  had  a  vivid  day  of  it, 
with  some  premonition  that  any  hour  might  bring 
him  ;  she  set  her  house  in  order  until  it  was  exquisitely 
clean.  It  seemed  like  a  little  shrine  scoured  to  the 
grain  in  years  of  tidiness  and  then  washed  anew. 
There  were  delicate  things  baked  and  set  aside  because 
she  did  not  know  his  appetite ;  but  they  were  the  dishes 
Petrie  loved.  She  was  not  tired,  though  she  had  fled 
over  the  rooms  with  all  her  mother's  old  dispatch; 
some  radiant  household  vision  raced  before  her,  touch 
ing  with  its  guiding  finger,  its  shining  wings,  the 
spots  where  tasks  were  to  be  done.  Thyrza  was  in  that 
most  ecstatic  state  of  all  life,  the  one  that  is  the 
manor-house  of  youth,  but  belongs  to  middle  age 
only  in  brief  expectancies  when  it  strays  by  chance 
into  some  flower-garden  of  fortune.  It  was  the  sense  of 
the  pleasant  which  is  also  the  new.  "Can  it  be  so?" 
Thyrza  kept  asking  herself  as  she  swept  and  dusted 
her  house  that  already  had  a  difference,  as  if  it 
looked  for  some  one.  "  Can  Barton  Gorse  be  coming  ? 
Can  he  be  coming  to  say  he  loves  me  and  shall  I 
believe  I  love  him,  too?  " 

But   some   one  else  came  first.    The  expressman 
arrived  with  a  great  package,  and  when  he  had  gone 

272 


A  KNIGHT   PEERLESS 


Thyrza  opened  it  with  some  doubt  that  it  was  for  her, 
and  found  what  seemed  Angelica's  answer  to  all  the 
trembling  questions  her  mind  had  put.  It  was  a  won 
derful  hat,  all  wavy  curves,  softened  again  by  a 
glorious  feather  that  bent  and  rippled  like  a  tasseled 
tree ;  and  there  was  a  fur  cloak  that  seemed  to  Thyrza 
even  as  splendid  as  it  was  warm.  She  could  not  know 
it  was  priceless,  or  that  Angelica  had  delayed  sending 
it  until  Petrie  was  well  out  of  the  country  because  he, 
too,  would  discern  its  value,  and  that  would  lead  to 
questions  and  his  guessing  their  small  secret.  Thyrza, 
with  an  instinct  untarnished  by  lack  of  use,  pulled  her 
soft  hair  looser  until  it  lent  her  a  new  shadowy  grace, 
and  pinned  on  the  hat.  One  added  incredible  beauty 
she  noted,  almost  transcending  the  hat  itself :  the  pin 
that  came  with  it,  sparkling  and  bizarre.  Could  she 
be  the  misguided  soul  that  had  worn  bonnet-strings  ? 
Then  she  slipped  into  her  cloak,  and  partly  because 
the  room  seemed  small  for  such  magnificence,  and 
partly  because  the  cloak  was  warm,  she  opened  her 
door  and  went  out,  and  paced  up  and  down  the  garden 
path. 

Thyrza  loved  fur.  She  stroked  it  with  her  bare 
hand,  and  thought  of  the  time  when  she  was  a  little 
girl  and  took  out  one  of  the  top  bureau-drawers  to 
stretch  down  her  little  marauding  arm  and  feel  the 
Christmas  presents  in  the  locked  drawer  below.  There 
had  been  something  soft,  and  she  had  confided  to 
Laura  that  it  must  be  a  muff;  perhaps  it  was  two 
muffs,  though  Thyrza  with  her  sense  of  privilege  then 

273 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

thought,  if  it  were  one,  it  would  be  for  her,  and  Laura 
would  like  that  just  as  well.  But  it  had  turned  into 
woolly  mittens  carded  into  fluff  that  agonized  your 
teeth  when  you  pulled  off  a  mitten  in  mad  haste  while 
the  other  hand  was  busy.  Now  the  muff  had  come 
true  in  a  glorious  apotheosis.  She  had  fur  enough  to 
clothe  her  from  head  to  foot,  a  shining  borrowed  skin. 
She  stroked  it  again,  looked  down  at  the  hem  of  her 
calico  dress  and  her  worn  shoe,  and  laughed,  and  then 
put  up  her  head  in  fitting  pride  to  walk  and  preen 
herself ;  and  turning  on  her  path  she  saw  Barton 
Gorse  at  the  gate. 

When  her  eyes  encountered  him  her  heart  gave  a 
great  throb  of  romantic  memory.  It  was  not  Barton 
Gorse  standing  there,  it  seemed,  but  his  uncle,  the 
iron-gray  cavalier  with  the  splendid  mustache  and  hat 
and  cloak  she  had  seen  and  loved  when  she  was  a 
child.  Thyrza  really  did  for  a  moment  think  it  was 
Terry  Updike,  and  it  was  easy  to  forget,  in  the  illu 
sion  of  it,  that  time  had  passed  for  him  as  for  her, 
and  that  as  she  was  no  longer  a  child  so  he  was  an  old 
man  ending  his  days  in  England,  while  the  papers 
chronicled  his  least  opinion,  as  if  his  state  were  that 
of  privilege  and  all  his  conclusions  about  the  long 
path  he  had  trodden  counted  weightily.  Terry  Updike 
was  one  of  those  whose  monuments  are  builded  in 
their  lifetime.  The  grain  he  had  sown  had  been  made 
into  bread  for  him  to  eat. 

Barton  Gorse  opened  the  gate  and  came  through 
while  she  stood  there  staring  at  him  in  her  arrested 

274 


A  KNIGHT  PEERLESS 


pose.  He  got  both  her  hands  out  of  the  fur  cloak, 
and  held  them. 

"Darling  child/'  he  said,  "it  must  be  you.  Tell 
me  it  is,  before  I  call  you  names  again." 

He  had  changed,  indeed.  With  middle  age  he  had 
not  lost,  he  had  gained  something  —  a  brusque  dig 
nity  of  manhood  that  had  been  lacking  in  the  discour 
agement  of  his  earlier  years.  Thyrza  stared  at  him, 
speechless.  He  shook  her  hands  a  little,  in  a  fond 
impatience. 

"Thyrza,"  he  insisted,  "are  you  Thyrza?" 

"  Yes,"  she  managed  to  say. 

"Then  come  in  where  I  can  make  love  to  you.  I'm 
going  to  do  it  at  once,  I  've  been  such  a  fool  to  wait." 

She  let  him  lead  her  in  as  if  she  were  a  child 
caught  in  truancy.  In  the  kitchen  he  kept  her  hand, 
and  stood  looking  at  her. 

"Why,"  said  he,  "you're  so  handsome  I  don't 
know  what  to  do.  I  did  n't  know  you  were  going  to 
be  anything  like  this.  I've  thought  of  you  as  my 
good,  dutiful,  conjugation-adoring,  declension-loving 
Thyrza." 

Then  Thyrza  thought  at  once  of  the  fur  and  feath 
ers,  and  wished  she  had  not  put  them  on,  because  she 
must  take  them  off  and  he  would  see  she  was  no  such 
affair  in  her  calico  dress.  She  drew  away  her  hand 
and  got  her  hat-pin  out,  and  slipped  off  hat  and  cloak 
in  haste.  Then  she  stood  before  him  in  her  calico, 
and  thought  of  beggar-maids  and  how  she  had  not 
even  youth  to  recommend  her. 

275 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

"  I  don't  feel  as  if  they  were  mine,"  she  said,  throw 
ing  a  look  at  the  rich  garment  on  a  chair.  "  They 
were  given  to  me.  They  came  this  morning.  I  felt 
I  'd  got  to  put  them  on." 

"Given  to  you?"  He  repeated  it  absently,  his 
eyes  scanning  her  with  their  old  kindliness,  though  the 
incredulous  admiration  had  gone  out  of  them.  There 
was  a  difference,  she  saw,  but  somehow  it  had  not 
made  him  the  less  kind. 

"  A  young  lady  gave  them  to  me,  the  young  lady 
Petrie  is  going  to  marry." 

"  Where  is  Petrie?"  He  spoke  interestedly,  as  if 
Petrie  were  only  some  one  who  might  come  in  to  in 
terrupt  them  at  any  moment  and  must  be  reckoned  on, 

"  In  the  Philippines." 

"  That 's  good.  That 's  capital  of  him.  I  shall  marry 
you  before  he  comes  back." 

"  Won't  you  sit  down  ?  "  asked  Thyrza,  with  a  flut 
tering  primness. 

"  Not  just  yet.  I  want  you  to  stand  here  to  be 
looked  at.  I  like  you  best  so,  in  your  common  dress. 
This  is  the  way  I  've  thought  of  you.  Will  he  like  it  ?  " 

"What?" 

"  Will  Petrie  like  my  marrying  you  ?  " 

She  could  not  answer  without  making  it  conditional. 

"  He  would  like  it." 

"  Good  boy  !  Then  he  really  's  fond  of  you.  He 
wants  you  to  be  happy." 

Petrie  did  want  her  to  be  happy,  she  was  sure, 
but  he  wanted  first,  in  his  hot-headed  rush  toward 

276 


A   KNIGHT  PEERLESS 


his  own  completed  fate,  to  see  her  placed  on  some 
accepted  plane. 

"  Sit  down,"  she  said  again.  "  I  shall  have  to  get 
dinner  pretty  soon." 

Barton  Gorse  released  her  hand  and  laughed. 

"  Are  n't  you  cunning,  Thyrza  !  "  he  interjected, 
the  note  of  admiration  in  his  voice  making  it  appar 
ent  that  he  meant  the  word  in  the  significance  of  its 
common  application  to  children  or  furry  animals. 
"  You  said  that  just  like  your  mother.  I  set  great 
store  by  the  old  times,  don't  you  ?  " 

Thyrza  now,  with  her  mind  running  ahead  and 
arranging  dinner,  was  more  at  ease.  Barton  helped  her 
put  the  table  out,  and  she  spread  the  cloth.  Then  he 
wandered  about  from  window  to  window,  if  one  may 
wander  in  so  small  a  space,  and  watched  her  deftness. 
When  she  stopped  at  the  stove  for  a  boiling  of  some 
thing  or  other  to  be  accomplished,  he  began,  from 
no  sense  of  the  fitness  of  place  or  time,  but  with  a 
directness  which  she  felt  to  be  agitating  in  the  ex 
treme  :  — 

"  The  fact  is,  Thyrza,  I  've  come  over  to  make  love 
to  you,  and  I  'm  going  to  do  it  for  all  I  'm  worth." 

"  You  don't  know  whether  you  like  me  after  all 
these  years."  Thyrza  felt  her  face  crimsoning  in  the 
kettle's  heat. 

"  Yes,  I  do.  The  thing  I  don't  know  is  whether 
you  're  in  the  way  of  liking  me.  But  I  intend  to  carry 
the  citadel  by  assault  and  marry  you  off  before  you 
get  your  breath;  then,  when  we  're  back  in  England, 

277 


THE   STORY  OF  THYRZA 

you  can  make  up  your  mind  whether  you  're  likely  to 
repent  at  leisure." 

"  Back  in  England?" 

"  Yes,  we  're  going  back  there.  It  would  n't  be  fair 
to  leave  uncle  Terry  now  he  's  got  so  used  to  me.  But 
you  '11  like  him.  You  '11  love  him.  And  you  '11  meet 
such  big  guns  of  literature  that  you  '11  have  to  keep 
declining  and  conjugating  into  the  night,  to  maintain 
your  self-respect." 

"  How  is  your  uncle  ?  " 

"  He  is  a  shadow,  a  beautiful  shadow,  of  what  he 
was,  —  a  wasted  old  man  lying  there  and  forgetting 
names  of  people,  but  remembering  reams  of  poetry 
and  saying  them  over  to  himself  when  he  can't  sleep. 
I  believe  he  never  sleeps.  He  seems  to  be  half  in  para 
dise  now.  You  see  he  believes  in  paradise  because 
he  's  a  poet.  I  have  to,  in  courtesy  to  him." 

"You  can't  like  me,"  said  Thyrza  involuntarily. 
"I  don't  talk  like  that." 

"  Of  course  you  don't,  darling  child.  You  never 
could.  But  I  do  like  you.  I  just  love  you.  I  've  loved 
you  so  much  all  these  years  that  nobody  else  has  been 
able  even  to  rent  your  place.  Sometimes  I  've  been  so 
bored  by  it  I  could  have  slapped  your  hands  for  it. 
But  I  've  liked  you.  Oh,  I  've  liked  you !  " 

Thyrza  had  the  pang  she  remembered  when  she 
saw  grown-up  Petrie  first  come  walking  home  from 
school  with  a  girl. 

"Have  people  tried?"  she  faltered. 

"Tried?" 

278 


A  KNIGHT  PEERLESS 


"To— rent  my  place?" 

His  eyes  spilled  over  with  laughter. 

"  Oh,  I  put  up  a  sign  when  you  turned  me  off :  '  To 
rent.  Unfurnished.'  But  the  minute  I  saw  somebody 
coming  that  way,  I  snatched  down  the  sign  and  ran 
down  cellar  and  hid  in  the  coal-hole." 

She  should  never  be  able  to  keep  pace  with  him, 
she  thought.  It  was  better  to  consider  him  a  brilliant 
visitor,  and  have  done  with  him,  not  a  cozy  inmate 
come  to  stay.  She  thought  how  wonderfully  he  would 
get  on  with  Angelica,  and  how  their  thoughts  would 
fence  and  parry  and  then  race  together  for  the  fun 
of  racing.  Even  their  speech  had  something  alike,  a 
swift,  changing  flow  as  if,  although  the  currents  were 
apart,  they  were  running  over  identical  slopes  and 
hindrances.  Did  that  betoken  an  inner  likeness,  and 
was  it  a  secret  of  her  own  sudden  cleaving  to  Angelica? 
Or  did  it  spring  from  their  fostering  tenderness  for 
her,  their  wish  to  reassure  and  fortify  her  own  sim 
pler  mind  ?  As  if  he  read  her  in  Angelica's  own  way, 
he  was  answering  with  an  absurd  composure. 

"  I  'm  not  like  this  all  the  time.  I  'm  chattering  to 
make  you  think  I  'm  brilliant,  you  do  love  brilliancy 
so.  Partly  too  to  keep  us  both  from  crying." 

"You're  so  different." 

"Am  I,  Thyrza?  Well,  I'm  old,  I  know." 

"No,  not  that.  You're  splendid.  You  look  like 
him." 

"Uncle  Terry?  Some  of  them  say  so.  I  don't 
believe  I  really  do,  any  to  hurt,  because  he's  the 

279 


THE  STORY  OF  THYRZA 

splendidest  ever.  But  I'm  not  really  changed,  Thyrza, 
though  I  talk  so  fast.  Look  at  me  and  see." 

She  did  look  as  involuntarily  as  she  had  obeyed  him 
those  years  ago  when  he  had  bade  her  hunt  up  some 
thing  in  the  lexicon.  There  was  the  old  kind  smile. 
He  too  seemed  to  have  remembered  just  which  one  it 
was,  and  put  it  on  to  reassure  her.  Her  smile  came  to 
meet  it. 

"  No,"  said  Thyrza, "  I  guess  you  haven't  changed." 

When  dinner  was  ready,  they  sat  down  to  it  and 
talked  commonplace  things.  She  heard  how  Margaret 
Petrie  was  holding  a  salon  in  Florence  and  was  the 
crown  of  the  English  set  there,  and  how  Helen  David 
son  was  still  at  Spa  and  always  would  be,  adoring  her 
beast  of  a  husband. 

"  But  it 's  no  use  pitying  her,"  said  Barton,  show 
ing  his  first  gloom.  "  She  likes  him.  She  says  he 
is  n't  a  beast  now,  and  that  wipes  out  the  past." 

"  Oh,  I  'm  glad  she  's  got  him  back,"  said  Thyrza. 

"  Are  you  ?  Well,  she  is,  too.  She  trumped  up  some 
kind  of  a  theory  years  ago  about  his  soul,  and  it 
seems  to  have  justified  her.  If  he's  got  one,  she's 
saved  it  —  if  it 's  worth  saving." 

"  You  don't  seem  to  doubt  about  uncle  Terry's 
soul!" 

"  Oh,  no  !  You  can  see  that  right  through  the  hide, 
like  an  angel  in  a  crystal  jar.  No !  no !  it  would  be  a 
bold  man  that  would  deny  a  soul  to  uncle  Terry." 

When  dinner  was  over,  she  put  away  the  food,  and 
then,  as  she  took  her  place  at  the  sink  to  wash  the 

280 


A  KNIGHT  PEERLESS 


dishes,  Barton,  with  a  perfectly  commonplace  assur 
ance,  took  a  towel  from  the  line  and  presented  him 
self  to  wipe  them  for  her.  He  glanced  out  of  the 
window. 

"  How  low  the  sun  is !  " 

66  It 's  dusk  early,"  said  Thyrza. 

"  I  must  get  to  my  love-making.  I  '11  show  you  all 
my  cards.  This  i$  how  I  happened  to  come  over. 
One  night,  not  three  weeks  ago,  uncle  Terry  began 
talking  to  me  about  his  life.  It  was  more  than  half 
rhapsody,  a  kind  of  supreme  confidence  to  himself." 

Thyrza  paused  with  a  dish  in  air,  his  words  seemed 
to  her  so  grand  and  beautiful.  She  would  never  get 
over  her  worship  of  the  intellectual  forms  of  things, 
and  words  would  always  seem  to  her  something 
sacred. 

"  He  dwelt  chiefly,"  said  Gorse,  without  heeding 
her,  "  on  what  he  had  foregone,  and  what  he  had 
made  others  miss  through  lack  of  hope,  not  believing 
overwhelmingly  in  the  higher  powers,  —  the  unseen 
powers,  —  trusting  the  soul  of  things.  And  he  is  a 
poet!  If  he  had  that  to  remember,  what  had  I?" 

"  Go  on,"  Thyrza  breathed.  She  was  afraid  to  have 
him  stop  before  he  had  inducted  her  into  those 
mysteries  that  might  make  her  own  way  plain. 

"  When  I  had  listened  to  him  for  as  long  as  he 
would  speak,  I  remembered  you.  I  'm  always  remem 
bering  you.  I  thought  maybe  if  I  had  n't  accepted 
your  decision  as  I  did,  we  should  both  have  been  hap 
pier.  For  you  know,  Thyrza,  I  believe,  I  fully  believe, 

281 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

not  so  much  that  you  're  fond  of  me  as  that  you  're 
prepared  to  be.  I  feel  somehow  as  if  all  this  letter- 
writing  of  ours  —  it's  been  tiresome  sometimes,  but 
it's  been  necessary  and  honest  —  I  believe  all  life  has 
been  preparing  us  to  love  each  other  like  sixty." 

"  I  believe  that,  too  !  " 

She  had  said  it  before  she  realized  what  the  words 
would  mean  to  him.  They  came  out  of  the  inner 
crystalline  well  of  her  life,  as  if  she  had  dipped  her 
hand  in  and  brought  it  up  sparkling  with  clear,  cool 
drops. 

"  Then,  by  George  !  "  said  Barton, "  that 's  all  there 
is  to  it.  I  need  n't  make  love  any  more.  We  '11  just 
get  married  and  sail  for  England.  Petrie's  on  his  feet. 
If  he  is  n't,  I  '11  put  him  there." 

"No!  no!" 

"Yes!" 

"  I  can't  let  you  marry  me." 

"  Let  me  !  You  put  it  as  if  it  would  be  disaster  for 
me.  What  do  you  mean,  Thyrza?" 

She  looked  beyond  him  out  of  the  window,  where 
a  squad  of  boys  in  flannels  were  running,  elbows  set 
and  faces  hot,  down  to  the  river.  They  looked  to  her 
like  the  youth  she  had  never  really  had  in  its  insolent 
bravery,  because  misfortune  came  so  soon ;  every  step 
of  their  race  reminded  her  jeeringly  that  she  had  not 
their  excuse  of  the  unreasoning  force  of  blood.  She  had 
one  weapon  in  her  armory :  prudence.  Let  her  use  it. 
There  was  one  thing  she  could  not  let  him  suffer.  He 
should  not  make  the  burden  of  her  tarnished  fame  his 

282 


A  KNIGHT  PEERLESS 


own,  even  though  they  went  among  strangers  and 
only  two  or  three  who  knew  her  past  suspected  he  was 
carrying  it. 

"Well,  then/'  he  was  saying,  in  a  baffled  way, 
"  I  've  got  to  go  back  to  my  love-making." 

Thyrza  laughed  out  and  he  laughed  with  her.  If  he 
was  endowed  with  such  power  to  conjure  away  her 
blue  devils,  where  was  it  to  lead  her  ?  He  would  simply 
go  fluting  through  the  world,  and  she  would  have  to 
follow. 

"That's  right,  Thyrza."  He  was  commending  her. 
"Laugh  a  little.  Let's  have  some  fun  before  we  die. 
It  won't  be  long  before  the  dusk  is  falling.  The  dusk ! 
That 's  what  you  said.  I  love  that  way  of  putting  it. 
Well,  we're  going  to  be  old  pretty  soon,  I  sooner 
than  you,  ever  so  much  sooner.  The  dusk  will  be 
falling.  Let 's  kindle  a  good  fire  on  the  hearth,  and 
light  the  lamp,  and  sit  there  like  Darby  and  Joan  till 
one  of  us  nods  off.  Ain't  I  just  the  poet,  Thyrza? 
But  you  do  it  with  me." 

He  put  out  his  hand,  and  Thyrza  laid  hers  in  it.  At 
the  same  time  she  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  Barton,  no." 

"  You  like  me,  don't  you?" 

"  Oh,  yes  !  " 

"  If  we  were  thirty  now,  —  well,  one  of  us  thirty 
and  the  other  twenty,  —  would  n't  you  perhaps  say 
you  loved  me  ?  " 

She  nodded,  keeping  her  clear  eyes  fixed  on  him. 
There  was  never  a  great  issue  when  Thyrza  doubted 

283 


THE   STORY   OF  THYRZA 

that  she  must  tell  the  truth.  She  had  had  her  temptation 
when  she  realized,  that  other  day,  how  in  the  mad 
whirl  of  Angelica's  commands  she  meant  to  lie  heartily ; 
but  Thyrza  had  decided,  when  the  hour  was  past, 
that  she  was  a  craven  to  think  it  and  it  would  have 
done  no  good.  All  her  undying  hope  had  been  in 
drawing  straight  lines. 

"You're  afraid  of  the  word,  then,"  Barton  was 
persuading  her  gently.  "  We  won't  use  it.  We'll  just 
say  you  're  going  to  marry  me,  and  come  to  England." 

Two  tears  ran  down  Thyrza's  cheeks.  Angelica 
seemed  to  have  opened  to  her  the  luxurious  art  of 
crying.  She  shook  her  head.  Barton  looked  at  her  a 
long  time.  There  were  things  he  might  have  asked,  not 
because  he  needed  to  know  them  but  because  they 
would  have  enlightened  him  toward  persuading  her. 
Was  the  other  man  living,  and  did  she,  in  her  fastidi 
ous  honor,  believe  it  would  be  a  wrong  to  either  of 
them  to  make  herself  secure  ?  Was  she  still  expiating 
the  fatal  deed  of  her  girlhood?  He  could  not  ask. 
There  was  something  in  his  knowledge  of  her  that 
told  him  how  bruised  a  heart  she  carried,  and  not  even 
to  bring  about  her  ultimate  happiness  could  he  hurt 
it  further.  He  even  wondered  if  he  took  her  to  his 
breast  and  ardently  called  upon  her  blood  to  help  him, 
whether  he  might  not  carry  the  citadel  by  assault. 
But  he  had  always  believed  that  she  had  suffered  some 
such  wrong  as  an  unthinking  child  might  have  endured, 
and  old  nerves  in  her  might  be  waiting  to  shriek  again 
at  the  demand  of  earthly  passion.  So  he  dropped  her 

284 


A  KNIGHT  PEERLESS 


hand  and  rose,  and  she  stood  also,  and  they  faced  each 
other. 

« I  '11  go,  Thyrza." 

That  seemed  a  deprivation  greater  than  she  could 
bear. 

"  For  good  ?  "  she  faltered. 

He  smiled,  hopefully  for  himself  and  most  tenderly 
for  her. 

"  No,  darlingest.  Just  back  to  town  to  see  about  my 
luggage  —  I  rushed  here  from  the  boat  —  and  get  it 
to  Longford,  to  the  old  house.  I  shall  be  down  again 
to-morrow.  I've  got  to,  to  attend  to  my  love-making." 

She  shook  her  head  again,  but  he  could  see  that  he 
was  leaving  her  not  unhappy.  When  he  was  at  the 
door  he  halted,  came  back  and  took  her  hands,  to  kiss 
them  in  a  fervent  haste. 

"  Good-by,"  he  said.  "  Good-by,  darlingest." 

She  watched  him  from  the  window,  and  just  as  he 
was  about  to  round  the  corner,  she  fled  out  into  the 
yard  and  waved  to  him.  So  he  came  back.  They  met 
in  the  garden-path,  and  he  held  her  hands  again,  such 
hope  in  his  eyes  as  she  had  never  seen.  But  her  own 
eyes  were  brimming. 

"What  is  it,  Thyrza?"  he  was  asking  tenderly. 
"  This  is  n't  because  I  'm  going  ?  That  would  mean  — 
why,  it  makes  me  dizzy  to  think  what  splendors  it 
would  mean." 

She  was  paying  no  particular  attention  to  what 
he  said,  but  looking  him  in  the  face  with  a  puzzling 
intentness. 

285 


THE  STORY  OF  THYRZA 

"  You  sure  you  will  come  back?  "  she  asked  simply. 

"  Sure  ?  Am  I  sure  the  sun  will  rise  ?  " 

Then  she  took  her  hands  away  from  him  and 
laughed  a  little. 

"It  seems  as  if  there  was  something  outside  us/' 
she  said,  "waiting  for  us.  It  seems  to  — threaten  us." 

"Where,  dear?" 

She  looked  about  at  the  quiet  little  street,  the  sky, 
and  over  her  shoulder  at  the  river.  Through  a  sudden 
willfulness  of  the  day  the  sun  was  out  brilliantly  for 
one  of  the  last  moments  of  his  shining. 

"  There,"  she  said,  with  a  vague  motion  of  her 
hand.  It  indicated  the  mystery  of  even  the  tamed 
nature  lying  wide  about  them. 

Barton  laughed. 

o 

"  You  're  nervous,  child,"  he  said.  "  We  're  both 
strung  up  to  the  snapping-point.  No  wonder  you  see 
him." 

"  Who,  Barton  ?  "  she  whispered,  out  of  her  fear 
that  seemed  the  greater  because  she  was  standing  in 
the  open.  "  Who  is  it  I  see?" 

"  Pan,  child.  I  suppose  he  's  in  village  streets  some 
times.  It  is  n't  always  a  thicket.  I  'm  coming  in,  dear, 
until  you  're  quieted." 

"And  lose  the  train?" 

"No,  that's  the  train  I've  got  to  take.  But  I've 
a  good  five  minutes,  if  I  sprint  a  little." 

Then  she  really  laughed  light-heartedly,  and  the 
day  smiled  out  of  its  ominous  brightness.  Pan  had 
passed.  She  even  heard  the  rustle  of  his  going,  and 

286 


A  KNIGHT  PEERLESS 


looked  about  over  her  shoulder  at  the  river,  where  a 
flying  cloud  cast  its  shadow,  that  was  yet  not  the 
shadow  of  a  cloud  but  of  the  moving  god. 

"  No,"  she  said.  "He  's  gone.  You  need  n't  sprint. 
Good-night.  Good-by,  and  come  to-morrow." 

Barton  looked  down  at  her  gravely  for  a  moment, 
as  if  he  questioned  whether  it  would  be  better  to  kiss 
and  wait  or  to  go  and  come  again.  But  there  was  in 
her  something  which  still  called  for  delicate  delays, 
and  as  he  had  planned  his  campaign,  so  he  would 
follow  it. 

"Then,"  he  said,  "to-morrow." 

He  was  gone,  and  she  turned  away  lest  she  en 
counter  the  bad  omen  of  watching  him  out  of  sight. 
Indoors  she  sank  down  in  the  chair  where  he  had  sat, 
and  raised  her  hands  to  her  lips  and  kissed  them. 
She  was  not  going  to  marry  him,  but  she  was  warm 
to  the  heart. 

The  next  morning  she  rose  with  the  feeling  of  good 
fortune,  if  a  pleasurable  excitement  meant  the  good. 
It  was  one  of  those  mornings  of  early  autumn  when 
the  frost  is  on  the  grass  in  a  clouded  silver,  and  the 
rims  of  all  the  leaves  are  outlined  in  glittering  white. 
The  river  looked  cold  but  blue,  and  it  was  smooth. 
It  looked  to  her,  who  had  seen  so  many  boys  rushing 
there  in  a  gay  abandon,  like  a  playground  of  youth. 
Before  her  work  was  done,  even,  she  went  out  to  get 
a  breath  of  morning  air  and  run  along  the  path 
Angelica  had  taken,  as  if  the  way  the  steps  of  youth 
had  hastened  might  bring  her  nearer  the  end  youth 

287 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

craved.  For  the  first  time  since  the  murder  of  her 
hope  she  longed  for  joy,  personal  joy  that  led  nowhere 
that  could  be  mapped  or  predicted,  but  only  into  the 
morning.  She  knew  what  train  Barton  must  take,  if 
he  meant  to  come  again  to  her  to-day ;  she  must  be 
back  in  time  to  finish  getting  the  house  in  order  for 
him.  The  post  had  come, she  found;  there  was  a  let 
ter  under  her  door.  It  was  in  Laura's  unformed  half- 
childish  hand,  and  seemed  another  omen.  Laura  did 
not  write  often,  because  she  had  no  habit  of  the  pen, 
and  there  was  little  to  say  except  that  they  were  "  well 
as  usual."  Thyrza  read  the  letter.  As  she  opened  it, 
it  had  even  seemed  to  her,  in  her  glow  of  hope  and 
sense  of  the  morning,  that  Laura,  like  Angelica  and 
like  Barton,  had  come  to  tell  her  all  things  were  to  be 
made  new.  It  would  not  have  surprised  her  greatly, 
in  this  dazed  acceptance  of  miracle,  to  find  that  Laura 
had  written  her  that  the  old  things  had  passed  away ; 
they  had  been  a  dream  even,  or  a  pageant,  to  teach 
them  both  what  life  might  be.  But  in  that  case  her 
son  out  conquering  the  world,  and  Angelica  who  only 
came  to  her  through  her  son,  must  be  figures  in  a 
dream.  So  it  was  with  a  vague  feeling  of  high  possi 
bilities  that  she  read  the  letter.  It  was  very  short. 
Laura  was  "  sort  of  discouraged."  She  wanted  Thyrza. 
It  was  dull  as  death  in  Leafy  Eoad,  but  they  could 
have  a  nice  little  visit  together,  and  though  Andy  was 
away  a  good  deal,  at  work,  it  would  do  him  good,  too, 
when  he  and  Thyrza  got  wonted.  Would  she  come? 
Instantly  the  old  guardians  of  Thyrza's  life  seemed 

288 


A  KNIGHT  PEERLESS 


to  come  flying,  hooded,  mantled,  their  faces  hidden, 
indeterminate  shapes  of  gloom  that  she  had  conceived 
when  she  used  to  read  the  translations  of  Greek  plays 
Barton  Gorse  had  sent  her  —  the  Furies,  she  had 
learned  to  call  them.  They  were  in  the  room,  they 
had  settled  in  the  darkest  corner,  still  veiled  but  im 
placable,  commanding  her  never  to  forget.  She  must 
keep  the  bonds  of  the  punishment  she  had  meted  out 
to  herself,  because  they  also  had  decreed  it,  and  she 
had  read  the  lines  of  it  in  their  inexorable  air.  She 
could  not  go  to  Laura,  however  Laura  wanted  her. 
She  must  not  enter  Andy's  house. 

Then,  as  she  stood  there  wondering  how  she  could 
refuse  her  sister,  the  other  messenger  came.  In  an 
instant  the  boy  had  gone,  and  she  was  reading  the 
yellow  slip  with  its  fatal  words.  There  had  been  an 
accident.  Barton  Gorse  was  hurt.  He  was  at  his  house 
at  Longford. 

Thyrza  had  not  made  many  journeys,  and  she  pre 
pared  for  this  one  in  such  haste  as  if  the  conventional 
ways  of  traveling  were  unknown  to  her.  Over  her 
clean  morning  calico  she  slipped  the  fur  cloak  —  not 
because  it  was  beautiful,  but  because  it  seemed  like 
Angelica's  hand  on  hers  —  and  pinned  on  the  feather 
hat.  With  her  old  gloves  and  her  purse  in  her  hand, 
she  locked  the  door  behind  her,  —  not  on  the  Furies, 
because  they  went  with  her,  to  remind  her  of  Laura's 
letter  that  must  be  answered  by  wire,  —  and  got  her 
train.  And  by  and  by,  when  the  morning  was  spent  and 
a  rainy  sky  obscured  the  promise  of  the  dawn,  she  was 

289 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

in  Longford  and  had  telegraphed  Laura  she  could  not 
come,  —  she  put  in  a  merciful  "  not  yet,"  in  spite  of 
the  Furies ;  and  she  had  inquired  her  way  to  Barton's 
house,  and  then,  when  she  set  off  half-running  and 
stopped  to  get  her  breath  and  run  again,  it  came  to 
her  that  she  might  have  had  a  carriage,  but  that  she 
was  too  used  to  the  efficacy  of  her  own  feet  to  con 
sider  it. 

The  old  Gorse  house  was  well  back  from  the  street, 
and  the  street  was  the  best  in  Longford,  a  shaded  high 
way  with  elms  as  old  as  the  founding  of  the  town.  It  was 
a  great  cheerful  yellow  house,  with  coverts  of  shrubbery 
and  rowan  trees  in  front.  Their  red  berries  were  spilled 
all  over  the  path,  and  Thyrza,  with  a  sick  feeling, 
stepped  across  the  brown  grass  to  avoid  them,  they 
were  so  like  blood.  The  door  was  opened  to  her  be 
fore  she  could  knock.  Katie  stood  there,  Katie  who 
had  been  elderly  once  in  Leafy  Road  and  was  now  old. 
She,  too,  was  moved,  Thyrza  saw,  at  the  thought  of 
old  times  running  like  a  river  of  destiny,  into  this 
sad  present,  and  after  she  had  motioned  Thyrza  to  the 
stairway,  she  sat  down  in  the  great  hall  chair  and  put 
her  apron  to  her  face.  Thyrza  went  on  and  turned  to 
the  front  room  where  there  was  a  flickering  fire  on 
the  hearth  and  the  furnishings  of  an  olden  time,  and 
where  Barton  Gorse  lay  in  the  great  four-poster,  the 
coverings  drawn  to  his  chin,  his  eyes  upon  the  door. 
He  was  very  pale,  so  pale  that  it  seemed  to  her  as  if 
the  blood  had  drained  out  of  him  ;  and  immediately 
her  heart  contracted,  and  forbade  her  to  wonder  how 

290 


A  KNIGHT  PEERLESS 


else  it  was  with  him  beyond  the  life  iu  those  glowing 
eyes.  A  man  was  with  him,  but  he  went  away  at  once, 
evidently  by  prearrangement,  and  Thyrza  threw  off 
her  cloak  and  hat,  and  sat  down  by  the  bed,  in  her 
dress  a  humble  attendant  but  in  the  anguish  of  her 
face  the  nearest  a  man  could  have.  Barton  was  smil 
ing  at  her  in  the  old  way,  though  the  smile  had  a 
twitch  in  it.  She  could  see  that  he  had  schooled  him 
self  for  her  coming,  and  that  the  smile  was  to  help 
her  through  what  they  both  had  to  bear.  He  began 
at  once. 

"  You  hurried,  did  n't  you  ?   You  were  a  dear.  The 
chances  are  I  live  some  hours.  To-morrow  morning-,  the 

O  * 

doctor  sets.  That  gives  us  quite  a  while  to  say  things." 
The  call  brought  its  quick  response.  She  felt  the 
hand  of  necessity  laid  upon  her  nerves  and  looked  at 
him  in  turn  as  smilingly.  Then  she  bent  and  kissed 
him. 

"  I  wish  you  had  stayed  with  me,"  she  said. 
"  So  do  I,  dear.   But  we  mustn't  wish." 
It  came  to  her  in  the  flash  of  thoughts  hurrying 
past  her,  that,  if  one  were  to  do  it,  she  should  wish 
that  she  had  taken  him  warmly  to  her  heart,  when  he 
had  asked  for  love,  and  told  him  there  was  a  worldful 
of  it  for  him.  But  that,  too,  she  put  aside  for  the  time 
when  he  should  be  gone. 

He  was  smiling  at  her  whimsically,  a  little  irregular 
smile. 

"It  was  Pan,  wasn't  it,"  he  said,  "yesterday  in 
the  garden  ?  " 

291 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

The  heathen  gods  seemed  as  far  away  from  her  as 
the  time  when  they  were  visible  to  men.  All  the  books 
she  had  read  or  wanted  to  read,  the  languages  she  had 
longed  to  know,  seemed  like  obsolete  furniture  she  was 
tossing  into  an  abyss  to  give  place  for  the  homely  fur 
nishing  where  life  could  live.  And  all  about  her,  in  a 
narrowing  circle,  were  intelligences  knit  in  with  her 
childish  life,  affections  awakened  after  loss  to  sustain 
her  at  this  moment  when  life  and  death  were  so  near 
each  other  that  she  could  almost  see  what  made  them 
seem  so  different.  Her  mother,  Laura,  Andy  even  — 
they  were  pouring  sustenance  into  her  failing  powers 
from  their  long  well-wishing  to  her.  But  because  he 
spoke  of  Pan,  she  nodded  at  him  in  understanding, 
and  he  said  from  a  curiosity  not  all  whim,  — 

"  Did  he  come  to  warn  us,  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  Maybe  so,"  said  Thyrza,  still  humoring  him. 

"I  often  wonder  whether  it's  hostile  to  us,"  he 
said  dreamily,  "  the  great  force  outside.  It  tries  so 
hard  to  kill  us  off.  Well,  never  mind.  There  's  some 
thing  back  of  it  that  is  n't  hostile."  Then  he  seemed 
to  be  recalling  himself  to  a  grip  on  the  framework  of 
things,  and  presently  he  had  succeeded.  "  I  want  to 
tell  you  what  I  've  done,"  he  said.  "  Last  night  I 
made  my  will.  You'll  have  this  house  and  a  lot  of 
money.  Now  wouldn't  it  be  nice  to  marry  me?  I 
only  made  the  will  in  case  you  would  n't  —  you  're 
such  an  obstinate  little  conjugating  pig." 

"  Just  as  you  please,"  said  Thyrza. 

She  hoped  she  might  have  one  of  his  hands  to 

292 


A  KNIGHT  PEERLESS 


hold,  but  she  dared  not  ask  whether  they,  too,  were 
hurt. 

"No,  not  just  as  I  please.  Would  you  rather? 
What  would  be  easier  for  you  staying  here  alone  ?  " 

She  felt  the  need  of  saying  things  clearly  and 
calmly,  though  in  haste. 

"  If  you  married  me,  Barton,  they  would  always 
say  you  were  Petrie's  father  and  made  me  reparation. 
I  could  n't  bear  to  have  them  think  that  of  you." 

"  Was  that  why  you  put  me  off?  " 

"  Yes." 

"You  were  a  goose,  Thyrza." 

"I  couldn't  have  them  despising  you." 

"  But  I  guess  you  would  have  married  me  in  the 
end.  I  could  have  made  you." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  should  have  married  you." 

The  hooded  creatures  away  off  in  some  obscurity 
outside  the  room,  shook  their  heads  at  her,  but  she 
did  not  mind  them.  She  had  broken  her  bonds  of 
expiation  and  remorse. 

"I'll  talk  a  little  now,  and  then  rest,"  he  was  say 
ing.  "  We  must  say  all  we  can.  I  have  an  idea  they  '11 
deaden  me  at  the  last.  So  it  would  be  easier  for  you 
not  to  marry  me  ?  " 

"It  would  be  easier  not  to  have  them  think  you 
are  —  not  what  you  are." 

"  Well,  then,  let  it  be  as  it  is." 

"  Do  you  care  ?  " 

"  No,  darlingest.  It  won't  make  any  difference 
where  I  'm  going,  nor  to  either  of  us  after  you  come." 

293 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

"Shall  I  go  to  you?"  She  asked  it  like  a  child, 
with  her  old  child  earnestness  over  moods  and  tenses, 
careful  to  have  it  all  just  right,  and  believing  in  his 
power  to  tell  her. 

"  Yes.  It  has  come  to  me  quite  suddenly,  to  be  cer 
tain  of  it.  It  came  to  uncle  Terry,  but  I  thought  it 
was  because  he  was  a  poet.  But  I  see  now  it  was  be 
cause  he  'd  got  to  the  threshold  where  the  door  stands 
open.  You  can't  open  the  door  till  you  get  to  the  sill. 
Yes.  There  's  another  country." 

At  that  moment  her  own  case  seemed  to  her  harder 
than  his.  She  forgot  Petrie  and  that  she  loved  him, 
and  it  seemed  as  if  it  would  be  a  long  time  possibly 
before  she,  too,  could  find  herself  at  the  threshold 
and  touch  the  door  and  know  she  was  going  to  see 
Barton  Gorse.  He  guessed  or  knew  what  she  was 
thinking. 

"  You  've  had  a  pretty  hard  life,  Thyrza,  have  n't 
you?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes.  I  've  had  a  hard  life." 

"  But  does  it  seem  long  ?  " 

She  thought  back  over  the  years.  No,  it  had  not 
seemed  long. 

"  Well,  no  more  will  it  again.  And  you  '11  find  me 
wanting  you."  He  lay  resting  for  a  while  and  then 
said  musingly,  "  I  thought  there  was  some  kind  of  a 
bee  in  your  bonnet  about  thinking  you  mustn't 
marry  me — for  that  reason,  you  know,  the  reason 
you  gave.  I  even  thought  you  might  n't  want  to  take 
a  legacy  from  me,  so  I  left  a  little  one  to  Laura  and 

294 


A  KNIGHT  PEERLESS 


a  little  one  to  Margaret  Petrie, —  I  guess  Margaret 
will  understand  and  make  hers  over  to  you, — but 
you  've  got  the  lion's  share." 

Presently,  after  a  time,  when  the  man  had  come  in 
and  given  him  something  and  he  had  rested  with 
closed  eyes,  he  looked  up,  in  a  little  flash  of  humor, 
and  said,  "  I  don't  want  a  doleful  dying.  They  '11 
give  me  morphia.  Then  I  shall  say  all  sorts  of  queer 
things,  —  I  have  a  suspicion  I  did  last  night,  while 
they  were  getting  me  into  shape,  —  but  you  just 
remember  that  is  n't  me.  It  irritates  me  exceedingly 
to  think  we  may  be  doleful.  Let 's  not." 

The  day  passed  very  quickly  to  Thyrza,  because 
she  never  knew  what  time  it  was.  All  the  clocks  and 
watches  might  have  stopped  for  her  because  she 
seemed  to  be  living  in  one  great  moment  that  might 
be  called  time  and  might  be  eternity.  The  doctor 
came,  and  Barton  bade  him  remember  —  speaking 
lightly  in  a  way  that  need  not  break  the  heart  because 
it  was  entirely  sincere  —  that  since  he  could  not  be 
plucked  back  to  life,  he  might  be  allowed  to  squan 
der  his  hour  as  he  pleased. 

"  It 's  mine,"  he  said.  "  Thyrza  "  (he  had  not  men 
tioned  her  formally  to  any  one)  —  "  Thyrza  is  going 
to  stay  with  me  and  I'm  going  to  talk  it  away." 

Then  it  was  dusk,  and  the  night  had  come  outside, 
and  there  was  a  shaded  lamp  in  the  room.  Thyrza 
had  been  called  down  to  dinner,  and  Katie  served  her 
tenderly,  and  when  she  came  back  she  was  aware  that 
the  doctor  and  the  attendant  had  made  themselves 

295 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

comfortable  in  the  next  room,  ready  at  a  sound,  and 
that  she  was  to  watch  beside  the  dying. 

"  Now,"  said  Barton,  "  let 's  talk."  He,  too,  had 
evidently  been  prepared  by  some  sustaining  potion. 
His  eyes  were  brighter,  though  with  a  disturbing 
brilliancy,  and  his  cheeks  were  flushed.  "  Thyrza, 
you  seem  to  love  me." 

She  tried  to  think  of  the  greatest  words  there  were. 

"  Oh,  wonderfully  !  eternally  !  " 

"  That  'sgood.  We  should  have  been  happy.  Don't 
you  think  you  can  kill  all  your  ghosts  and  be  happy 
now?" 

"I  shall  try,"  she  said. 

"  That 's  a  good  girl.  Are  any  of  your  ghosts  alive 
yet,  dear  ?  " 

"  They  were,"  she  said  truthfully,  "  until  you  came. 
I  guess  you  banished  them." 

"I'm  glad.  I've  often  thought  I  should  like  to 
understand  your  life,  Thyrza.  Could  I  ?  " 

It  sounded  wistful.  She  suddenly  felt  that  since  he 
must  so  soon  be  done  with  earth,  it  would  bring  him 
nearer  to  her,  it  would  keep  him  warmer,  to  consider 
earthly  things. 

"  It  won't  make  you  angry  ?  "  she  hesitated. 

"No.  I'm  past  that.  But  I  should  like  to 
understand." 

She  began  then,  and  very  directly  told  him  the 
story  of  her  meeting  Andy  and  all  that  followed.  He 
lay  with  his  brilliant  gaze  fixed  on  her,  and  her  own 
clear  eyes  never  faltered  from  it.  If  Thyrza  had  all 

296 


A  KNIGHT  PEERLESS 


her  life  been  telling  the  truth,  it  appeared  to  her  a 
preparation,  and  not  too  arduous  a  one,  for  telling 
it  now. 

"Poor  child! "he  said.  "So  you  thought  it  was 
love." 

All  the  calmness  possible  to  humanity  seemed  to 
have  descended  upon  her  that  she  might  keep  him 
undisturbed. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  smiling.  "  I  know  better  now." 

"  The  earth  is  pretty  cruel  to  us.  She  wants  to  be 
peopled,  the  poor  earth.  She  has  to  be  cruel." 

Thyrza  went  on  and  told  him  Laura  had  sent  for 
her,  and  that  this  was  hard  to  meet,  because  she  could 
never  enter  Andy's  house.  Barton's  lids  had  dropped, 
but  they  came  open  here. 

"  Why,  child,"  he  said,  "  you  must  n't  do  that." 

"  Stay  away  ?  How  could  I  go  ?  There 's  Laura." 

"  You  must  n't  let  the  past  put  manacles  on  you 
like  that.  Perhaps  the  poor  devil  wants  to  see  you  and 
go  shriven,  when  he  goes.  There  are  paths  above  the 
paths." 

That  she  did  not  surely  understand,  but  it  came  to 
her  that  he  meant  there  was  something  loftier  than 
her  rigid  groove. 

"  Is  n't  it  funny,"  he  said,  "  now  I  've  said  that,  I 
can  see  paths  along  green  terraces,  one  higher  than 
the  other,  and  you  can  vault  from  one  up  to  the  other. 
But  I  must  n't  say  '  higher  '  to  you,  or  you  '11  think 
I  mean  scaling  some  rocky  peak  and  planting  banners 
there.  No  !  no  !  only  do  the  thing  that 's  warmest  and 

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THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

most  kind.  —  You  '11  write  to  uncle  Terry,  won't 
you?  "  he  added,  after  a  moment's  floating  off.  "It's 
a  dirty  trick,  my  deserting  him  this  way,  after  he  'd 
got  used  to  me.  You  tell  him  I  said  so.  He  knew  why 
I  came  —  to  see  a  woman.  Tell  him  the  woman  loved 
me,  you  loved  me,  Thyrza.  He  '11  understand." 

And  once  again  he  roused  to  say,  — 

"And  you  won't  kiss  Laura  because  it  would  be  a 
Judas-kiss  ?  Silly  !  silly  !  Everything 's  silly  but  — 
what  was  I  saying?  —  oh,  but  being  kind!  Re 
member  ! " 

It  seemed  as  if  the  night  were  slipping  fast  because 
the  doctor  had  set  that  as  the  bound  to  Barton's 
life.  Presently  he  looked  at  her  with  different  eyes. 

"  I  rather  guess  they  '11  have  to  do  something  for 
me,"  he  said;  and  at  the  rustle  of  her  dress  in  rising  the 
two  men  were  there.  Then  after  a  time  she  was  alone 
with  him  again,  and  he  said,  "Is n't  it  strange,  what 
we  miss  when  we  listen  to  our  coward  wills?  I  had 
a  bad  heart.  I  let  it  keep  me  out  of  a  hundred  things 
that  were  life  —  life.  And  I  'm  not  dying  of  it,  after 
all.  You  let  the  earth  stupefy  you,  Thyrza,  and  then 
you  shut  yourself  up  in  a  prison  because  you  were 
determined  to  serve  out  your  sentence.  You  and  I 
might  have  been  living  in  a  garden  all  these  years." 

Thyrza  laid  her  cheek  on  the  pillow  beside  his. 

"  It  is  n't  that  you  tried  to  be  too  good,  darlingest," 
he  counseled  her.  "  It 's  only  that  you  did  n't  be 
lieve  enough  —  I  did  n't  either  —  in  the  thing  that 
makes  over  and  renews.  It 's  all  life  —  life —  life  — 

298 


A   KNIGHT  PEERLESS 


look  at  the  grass — Thyrza ! "  She  lifted  her  head  and 
studied  him.  The  clear,  awakened  tone  had  some 
thing  new  in  it.  "  The  minute  I  'm  dead,  you  go  to 
Laura.  See  the  man,  if  he  wants  you  to.  Tell  him  to 
live  in  peace.  Let  him  die  in  peace.  Just  now  we  want 
it.  We  want  peace." 

66  Yes,  yes,  I  promise." 

"  Don't  stay  for  vigils  in  the  chamber  and  foolish 
funeral  sermons.  That  would  worry  me.  I  don't  want 
you  to  think  of  me  as  a  dead  man.  I  shall  be  alive.  Ask 
uncle  Terry  !  Yes,  you  go  to  Laura.  Ah, I  'm  easier!" 
The  potion  had  begun  to  work.  "  Put  your  head  down 
here,  darlingest.  Say  your  prepositions.  Then  you 
say  a  verb,  you  blessed  old  conjugating  duck!" 

Thyrza  put  down  her  face,  as  he  had  told  her,  and 
began  to  say  her  lessons  to  him,  and  after  a  time  the 
two  men  came  in  and  stood  there  quietly,  and  she  was 
aware  of  Michael  and  Katie  in  the  hall  without.  Pre 
sently  somebody  touched  her  on  the  arm,  and  she 
knew  it  was  time  to  go. 

Downstairs  later  she  inquired  of  Katie  if  there  was 
an  early  train,  and  when  Katie  asked  if  she  must  take 
it,  Thyrza  answered,  like  a  child,  — 

"  He  told  me  to." 


XII 

THE  SISTEKS 


J_T  was  the  middle  of  the  forenoon  that  Thyrza  was 
at  Leafy  Road,  and  clouds,  disclaiming  the  prophecy 
of  the  day  before,  had  parted  to  let  the  sun  through 
gloriously.  She  got  out  at  the  end  of  the  train, 'and, 
because  there  might  be  one  or  two  who  would  know 
her,  took  the  little  street  that  runs,  though  deviously, 
into  the  high  road ;  at  one  remembered  point  she 
stepped  over  the  stone  wall  into  the  crosscut  and  went 
hurriedly  toward  home.  This  was  the  way  running 
past  the  Poor  Farm,  where  aunt  Ellie  had  elected  to 
stay,  and  where  Laura  had  paid  her  scanty  board 
until  she  died.  It  was  Thyrza's  own  road,  the  one 
that  had  led  her  to  all  the  homely  happenings  of  her 
youth.  It  had  an  autumn  brownness  now.  The  dust 
was  on  the  self  heal  and  stone-clover,  hardback  was 
out  of  bloom,  and  elder-bushes  had  lost  their  drip 
ping,  winy  globes.  If  she  went  on,  it  would  be,  she 
knew,  to  find  other  play-houses  where  hers  had  stood 
with  Laura's  and  Rosie  May's.  This  was  not  only  be 
cause  they  three  had,  in  the  old  days,  chosen  their  sites 
so  cunningly  that  other  children  would  find  them 
adapted  to  the  purposes  of  life,  but  because  play 
houses  are  inherited  from  a  previous  generation,  and 

300 


THE   SISTERS 


where  one  has  been  another  is  sure  to  be.  It  is  as  the 
birds  return  to  a  beloved  branch.  To  remember  this 
gave  Thyrza  an  aching  yet  peaceful  sense  of  the  per 
manence  of  homely  things. 

For  the  moment  it  seemed  possible  to  drop  the  coil 
of  middle  life,  and,  carrying  time  by  assault,  leap  back 
into  the  world  when,  on  still  mornings  or  windy  after 
noons  and  tranquil  ones,  she  was  dipping  into  wells 
of  learning  with  Barton  Gorse.  Yet  here  she  smiled, 
for  Barton  Gorse  had  never  been  so  surely  leading  her 
as  now.  Thyrza  had  never  had  such  a  sense  of  being 
companioned  and  supported  by  intelligences  clearer 
than  her  own  ;  Angelica  in  her  warm  impatience  and 
her  impulsive  carelessness  seemed  to  be  with  her,  and 
Barton  Gorse,  the  spirit  of  him,  everywhere,  through 
the  illusion  of  nature.  He  had  lifted,  for  a  moment, 
the  curtain  of  the  shows  of  life,  and  now  he  was  to 
look  out  at  her  always  through  the  things  that  are, 
and  counsel  her,  with  the  authority  of  the  removed 
spirit,  to  understand  their  fleetingness. 

Her  mother's  house  was  closed.  The  great  elm  was 
bare,  and  the  leaves,  a  drift  of  crumpled  fragments, 
though  some  of  them,  withered  into  brown  scrolls, 
seemed  to  hide  messages  of  deepest  import,  stirred 
under  her  feet  with  a  kind  of  sentience,  she  felt,  a 
knowledge  that  she  had  come.  The  walls  were  shut 
ting  her  out,  yet  she  could  see,  in  their  mellow  gray- 
ness,  that  they  meant  kindly  to  her,  and  she  turned 
away,  her  hand  at  her  throat,  and  on  her  lips  the  old, 
inherited  cry,  "  0  my  soul !  " 

301 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

Andy  had  torn  down  his  grandmother's  house  and 
built  him  a  towered  mansion  on  the  hill  behind ;  but 
it  had  not  been  quite  finished  when  the  crash  of  his 
fortunes  came,  and  there  were  bare,  hideous  lapses 
in  its  florid  amplitude,  places  where  there  were  de 
signed  to  be  ornaments  only  less  horrible  than  the 
lack  of  them,  but  which,  being  missed,  made  it  merely 
desolate.  It  was  a  treeless  plot.  Andy  had,  in  the 
pride  of  his  fortunes,  selected  a  place  where  he  could, 
as  he  said,  "  have  a  view,"  but  where  it  was  to  be 
hoped  that  everybody  would  take  from  below  a  coun 
ter-view,  uninterrupted,  of  his  magnificence. 

Thyrza,  in  her  humility,  could  not  go  to  the  double 
front-door,  weatherworn  to  the  grain.  She  sought 
out  a  side  entrance,  and  twisted  the  button  that  was 
the  bell,  grinding  out  sound  without  resonance.  Laura 
herself  was  going  through  the  entry  it  gave  upon,  and 
she  opened  the  door.  It  was  strange  that,  although 
she  was  large  and  fair  and  handsome,  with  a  smooth 
outline  that  left  care  and  trouble  no  vantage-ground 
in  her  face,  she  should  seem  to  Thyrza  not  only  her 
self  but  their  mother  as  well.  She  was  in  no  sense  like 
Mrs.  Tennant,  but  she  breathed  to  Thyrza  such  famil 
iarity  and  kinship  that  surely  it  must  be  motherhood 
that  spoke  in  them  both,  —  through  her  also  to  Laura, 
she  had  time  to  hope.  Laura,  who  was  a  woman  of  no 
outspoken  passion,  gazed  at  her  an  instant,  taking  in 
the  surprise  of  her,  the  unexpectedness  of  her  rich 
attire,  and  then  uttered  her  name,  and  clung  to  her  as 
if  Thyrza,  slighter  than  she,  were  a  refuge  of  all  kinds. 

302 


THE   SISTERS 


"  You  said  you  would  n't  come/'  she  kept  saying. 
"  You  said  you  would  n't." 

"  I  said  I  could  n't/'  Thyrza  answered  gently,  her 
mind  now  on  mercy.  What  Barton  Gorse  had  coun 
seled  in  brief  seemed  to  run  into  everything.  He  was 
the  unseen  witness  of  her  deeds,  to  be  so  f  orevermore. 
"  I  found  I  could." 

Laura  lifted  her  wet  face  and  smiled  at  her, 

"Let  me  shut  the  door,"  she  said.  "It's  kind  of 
chilly,  these  fall  days.  Come  in  the  kitchen.  There 
ain't  any  fire  anywheres  else,  an'  this  old  barracks 
is  dreadful  cold." 

The  sound  of  her  voice,  still  like  their  mother's, 
though  of  a  richer  quality,  was  stimulating  and  sooth 
ing,  like  food  and  drink.  They  went  on  to  the  kitchen, 
and  Thyrza  was  moved  by  the  poverty,  the  unfinished 
look  of  everything.  It  was  a  meagreness  singularly 
striking  beside  that  of  her  own  house,  because  hers 
had  been  meant  to  be  a  little  poor  refuge  and  exquisite 
cleanliness  was  enough  to  dress  it ;  but  this  had  striven 
for  luxury  and  broken  down  before  attaining  it.  She 
went  back  to  the  hall  and  hung  up  her  hat  and  cloak ; 
then,  finding  Laura  had  disappeared,  she  returned  to 
the  kitchen,  and  took  an  apron  from  the  nail.  She 
tied  it  on,  and  Laura  found  her  at  the  sink  washing 
dishes,  and  said  nothing  because  the  act  seemed  to 
them  both  so  natural. 

"  Where's  Andy  ?  "  Thyrza  began  at  length,  com 
posedly. 

Suddenly  Andy  seemed  no  longer  the  enemy  of  her 

303 


THE   STORY  OF  THYRZA 

peace.  She  could  ask  for  him  as  she  had  asked  a 
hundred  times  years  ago  when  Laura  had  knowledge 
of  him  through  kindred  purposes  and  Thyrza  was  the 
one  outside. 

Laura  hesitated  a  moment.  Her  mother's  frown 
sprang  between  her  brows.  Once  there  had  been 
delicate  indication  of  it.  Now  it  had  come  to  stay. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  I  don't  hardly  know  what  to 
make  of  it."  This,  Thyrza  could  see,  was  the  perplexity 
of  one  to  whom  every  new  issue  must,  through  the 
habit  of  misfortune,  become  a  doubtful  one.  "  Andy 's 
give  up  his  speculatin'  an'  all  —  high  time,  too  !  even 
a  rat  won't  gnaw  an  empty  cob  —  an'  he  's  took  to 
carpenterin'." 

"  Well,"  said  Thyrza,  "  he  was  always  possessed  to 
get  a  two-foot  rule  into  his  hands." 

"  So  he  was.  Sometimes  seems  if  he  's  took  a  long; 

o 

turn  amongst  them  mines  an'  things,  an'  gone  back  to 
what  he  was  cut  out  for.  Mebbe  we  all  travel  a  kind 
of  a  roundabout  way  an'  then  come  back  in  the  end." 

Abstractions  were  alien  to  Laura.  Even  this  homely 
shred  of  philosophy  must  have  been  so  painstakingly 
nourished  that  Thyrza  wondered  what  its  roots  might 
be. 

But  Laura  was  returning  to  the  obvious. 

"Well,  that's  how  'tis,"  she  concluded.  Then  she 
cast  Thyrza  a  quick  yet  doubtful  glance.  "I  don't 
know  how  you  '11  take  it,"  she  said.  "  I  heard  Barton 
Gorse  was  comin'  home.  It  was  in  the  paper  when  he 
sailed.  He  'd  ought  to  be  here  by  now." 

304 


THE    SISTERS 


"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Thyrza.  She  was  smiling  as  if  there 
were  something  in  the  news  to  make  her  happy.  "  He 
came.  I  saw  him." 

Again  Laura  threw  her  a  sharp  look,  one  that 
lingered  curiously  upon  her. 

"How'd  you  see  him?"  she  asked.  She  felt,  if  it 
had  been  by  chance,  that  it  might  be  matter  of  a 
doubtful  import ;  but  if  he  had  hastened  at  once  to 
find  Thyrza,  then  something  might  arise  that  was 
fortunate  and  just. 

But  Thyrza  was  beginning  to  tell  the  story  of  his 
coming,  of  his  accident  and  of  her  going  to  him.  And 
she  ended,  — 

.  "  He  died  last  night.  No,  this  morning,  it  must 
have  been.  The  light  was  coming."  It  seemed  long 
ago.  The  time  by  clocks  and  watches  had  not  returned 
to  its  significance. 

Laura  was  looking  at  her  in  a  wondering  sympathy. 

"  You  hurried  away  an'  posted  right  down  here," 
she  said.  "  What  made  you  do  that  ?  " 

"  I  realized,"  said  Thyrza.  Then  she  stopped  and 
ended  soberly,  "  I  realized  things  are  too  uncertain." 

"Well,"  said  Laura.  "Well."  She  hesitated  a 
moment.  "I  don't  know  hardly  what  to  say,  now 
you  're  in  grief." 

Thyrza's  mind  flew  swiftly  back  on  the  path  it  had 
traversed.  Was  this  grief?  It  seemed  rather  like 
acquiescence  in  his  calm.  If  her  own  forehead  ached 
under  the  crown  blended  of  pain  and  love,  she  must 
hold  her  head  proudly,  not  forgetting  it  was  a  crown. 

305 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

At  last  she  had  been  loved.  She  had  been  bidden  to 
the  high  destiny  of  believing  she  should  be  loved 
again. 

They  worked  together  in  silence  for  a  moment. 
Laura  essayed  doubtfully,  — 

"Did  you  set  by  hinTtill  the  last?  "  The  homely 
phrase  bore  in  her  tone  all  the  meaning  of  a  passion 
ate  devotion. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Thyrza,  out  of  the  quietude  of  her 
state.  "  There  was  nobody  like  him.  He  set  by  me, 
too.  We  were  going  to  be  married." 

Laura  drew  a  quick  little  breath. 

"  No,"  said  Thyrza.  "  You  need  n't  be  sorry.  You 
must  n't  think  anything  of  him  but  what 's  the  best. 
He  was  the  best." 

"  It 's  a  terrible  world."  This  Laura  felt  she  could 
venture.  "  Things  come  too  late." 

It  seemed  to  Thyrza,  in  this  spring  of  her  hope, 
that  nothing  was  too  late.  Everything  was  in  its 
place,  exactly  where  it  must  have  been  to  lead  to  other 
things  supremely  good.  Her  nature,  that  had  strained 
forward  and  leaped  at  the  beautiful,  and  that  she  had 
herself  kept  so  long  in  a  narrow  bound,  had  been 
released  again,  not  to  the  pliancy  of  youth  but  a 
greater  swing  and  curve  toward  the  divine  certainties 
we  know  as  hope.  Barton,  at  the  threshold  of  the 
door  he  had  been  opening,  to  go  into  other  regions, 
had  released  her. 

"  Seems  to  me,"  she  added,  in  Laura's  own  lan 
guage,  "I'm  going  to  be  happier  than  ever  I  was." 

306 


THE   SISTERS 


Laura  could  not  understand. 

"  I  suppose  Petrie  's  doin'  well  ?  "  she  threw  in,  as 
perhaps  a  valid  cause  of  contentment,  one  that  could 
be  fathomed. 

"Yes.  He's  in  the  Philippines." 

"Will  you  think  of  that!  It's  wonderful  he  went 
through  college  as  he  did." 

Thyrza  was  about  to  say,  with  some  pride,  that  she 
and  Petrie  together  did  think  they  had  done  some 
thing  rather  noteworthy  there,  but  she  stayed  her 
self.  One  part  of  her  mind,  like  a  sharp  and  kindly 
monitor,  was  teaching  her  how  to  shield  Barton 
Gorse's  memory,  as  she  had  shielded  Laura  from 
other  things.  Laura  would  think  ill  of  him  for  letting 
the  mother  and  child  fight  out  their  cause  alone.  What 
did  these  things  matter,  save  as  they  were  kindly 
or  unkind?  In  a  little  time  all  men  and  all  women 
would  be  at  the  end  of  the  way  and  the  door  would 
open. 

Laura  was  looking  abstractedly  past  her.  She  wore 
the  frown  of  deepest  thought.  Now  she  rose  and  took 
her  little  shawl  from  its  nail.  This  had  been  their 
mother's  shawl.  Thyrza  knew  it,  —  the  torn  place  in 
the  fringe  where  Barton's  puppy  of  old  memory  had 
chewed  it,  the  spot  where  in  a  washing  the  plaids  had 
inexplicably  run,  —  and  her  heart  was  sick  at  the  call 
of  vanished  time. 

"I'm  goin'  over  to  Peltons',"  said  Laura,  with 
determination  now,  "  an'  tell  Andy  you  're  here.  He 
was  thinkin'  some  of  stayin'  over  there  to  dinner,  to 

307 


THE   STORY   or   THYRZA 

get  along  with  the  work ;  but  when  he  hears  you  've 
come,  I  guess  he'll  put  for  home." 

Thyrza  called  after  her.  "  Tell  him  I  shan't  stay. 
Tell  him  it 's  only  for  a  little  while." 

Shortly,  it  seemed,  after  Thyrza  had  sat  looking  in 
a  muse  at  the  homely  furnishings  about  her,  here  and 
there  poignantly  familiar,  as  they  had  been  supple 
mented  from  her  mother's  store,  Laura  was  back 
again.  She  sank  at  once  into  a  chair.  It  seemed  that 
she  could  meet  her  perplexity  better  so. 

"  I  don't  know  hardly  how  to  put  it,"  she  began. 
"  He  says  he  can't  come  home." 

"  Well,"  returned  Thyrza  gently,  "  that 's  all  right. 
Why,  you  crying,  Laura  ?  My  lamb,  you  must  n't  cry." 

The  habit  of  tender  words  woven  once  shamefacedly 
for  Petrie  only,  seemed  now  not  bright  and  strong 
enough  for  daily  use. 

Laura  was  wiping  her  tears  abstractedly  on  the 
little  shawl. 

"  Why,"  said  she,  "seems  if  he  didn  t  feel  to  come. 
I  told  him  we'd  got  company,  an'  he  left  off  ham- 
merin'  an'  turned  round,  budge  as  you  please ;  an'  then 
I  told  him  't  was  you  an'  he  better  make  half  a  day, 
so  's  to  come  home,  an'  he  put  in  hammerin'  for  all 
he 's  worth,  an'  says  he,  ( You  tell  her  I  'm  sorry,  but 
I  can't.  I  can't.  I  can't.'  I  could  n't  hardly  tell  what 
he  meant,  he  hammered  so,  but  seemed  as  if  he  kep' 
on  sayin'  it  — '  I  can't.  I  can't.  I  can't.'  What 's  got 
into  him,  Thyrza  ?  Andy  an'  you  always  used  to  be 
good  friends." 

308 


THE   SISTERS 


Thyrza  lifted  a  cover  from  a  too  impetuous  kettle. 
She  gave  herself  a  moment  for  considering. 

"  We  're  good  friends  now,"  she  said.  "  You  tell 
him  he  need  n't  be  sorry  any  more." 

Hatreds  and  revenges  looked  to  her  like  the  grains 
of  sand  the  sea  engulfs  so  deep  that  they  never 
rise  again  until  the  waves  pile  them,  with  a  million 
others,  to  build  a  rampart.  She  was  not  to  eat  Andy's 
salt  ?  She  smiled  over  the  puerile  conceit  when  she  sat 
later  at  the  kitchen  table,  breaking  bread  with  Laura. 
She  could  not  kiss  her  sister  whose  peace  she  had  so 
terribly  invaded.  Yet  an  hour  after,  when  they  clung 
to  each  other  and  parted,  Thyrza  looked  her  in  the  eyes 
with  eyes  as  honest  as  her  own  and  gave  her  lips  un 
hesitatingly.  This  was  because  Barton  Gorse,  who  was 
dead,  had  shown  her  the  better  way. 

"I  told  him  how  well  Petrie's  gettin'  on,"  Laura 
said,  at  parting.  "  I  thought  maybe,  if  he  was  thinkin' 
of  that,  he  'd  feel  different  if  he  knew  the  boy  had 
made  somethin'  of  himself.  (  God  !  '  he  says  to  him 
self,  like  that.  'T  was  as  if  he  thought  how  we  never  'd 
had  any  children  an'  there  was  n't  a  soul  to  bear  his 
name.  '  God  ! '  he  says.  Andy  never  's  been  a  swearin' 


man." 


That  night  Thyrza  was  home  again,  spent  with 
hurry  but  knowing  at  last  the  taste  of  happiness. 
Barton  Gorse  was  lying  in  his  own  house  waiting  for 
burial,  and  her  heart  was  with  him  though  not  urging 
her  feet  to  take  her  there.  She  did  not  even  keep 
vigil  for  him,  but  lay  down  in  her  bed,  hoping  for 

309 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

sleep  because  she  needed  it,  and  folding  her  hands 
like  that  other  traveler  who  had  found  the  deepest 
rest  of  all.  Her  hat  and  cloak  she  laid  aside  with  a 
feeling  that  she  should  never  wear  them  any  more. 
They  had  belonged  to  a  great  occasion.  They  seemed 
like  wedding  garments  spun  and  made  for  her  meet 
ing  with  Barton  Gorse,  to  give  him  momentary  earthly 
pride  in  her.  She  thought  it  probable  that  she  should 
go  back  to  her  plain  clothes  and  the  elderly  bonnet 
with  string's. 

o 


II 


When  Thyrza  came  into  the  inheritance  of  her 
house,  she  went  there  alone  after  the  last  day's  pack 
ing  and  saying  good-by  to  the  little  dwelling  where 
she  had  lived  so  long.  That  seemed  to  her  not  so 
much  the  surrender  of  a  part  of  her  own  life  as  that 
of  Petrie  whom  she  had  made  over  to  Angelica.  It 

o 

was  all  Petrie.  She  had  taken  the  place  to  bring  him 
up  in,  she  had  worked  for  him  there  when  it  would 
have  been  easier  to  lie  down  and  die,  if  she  had 
wrought  for  herself  alone ;  and  the  chapter  was  fin 
ished.  Petrie  was  a  part  of  her  gone  out  into  the 
world,  and  the  nest  that  had  held  him  seemed  a  hol 
low  thing.  She  said  good-by  to  her  few  acquaintances, 
and  to  the  river,  which  had  been  a  beauty  and  a 
lonesomeness  more  intimate  in  its  response  to  her  than 
any  human  soul  but  one.  Then  she  went  to  her  own 
house  in  Longford,  which  seemed  to  her  still,  because 
he  had  given  it  to  her,  the  house  of  Barton  Gorse. 

310 


THE   SISTERS 


It  was  a  cold,  windless  evening  when  she  walked 
up  the  drive.  The  mountain  ash  by  the  door  was  bare 
and  the  path  had  been  swept ;  she  was  glad,  because 
there  would  be  no  red  berries  under  her  feet.  A  light 
was  in  the  front  hall  and  another  in  the  kitchen.  The 
place  looked  ample  and  dark,  but  it  was  kind.  She 
stood  in  front  of  it  a  long  time,  cold  as  she  was,  and 
looked  up  at  its  magnificence.  "  Are  you  my  house?" 
she  asked  it,  in  a  voiceless  way,  and  it  seemed  to 
answer,  kindly  and  hopefully,  that  it  was.  Then  she 
rang  the  bell  and  Katie  came,  and  called  upon  the 
saints  to  govern  her  surprise. 

"  You  'd  a  right  to  let  me  know  you  were  coming," 
she  said  more  than  once,  while  she  drew  Thyrza  back 
into  the  warm  kitchen  where  she  had  been  sitting, 
half  asleep.  Michael  had  gone  out  to  have  a  smoke 
and  a  gossip  with  a  crony.  Thyrza  explained  that  she 
was  neither  too  cold  nor  hungry,  but  that  somehow  she 
had  wanted  to  come  exactly  like  this,  alone  and  after 
dark.  Katie  got  her  food  and  drink  ;  then  they  sat  and 
talked  about  Barton  Gorse.  Thyrza  was  avid  for  ac 
counts  of  him,  as  he  was  in  boyhood,  in  his  young  man 
hood,  though  she  had  seen  him  then  ;  later,  she  knew, 
she  could  study  his  mother's  picture  hanging  there  in 
the  great  hall,  and  vaguely  recalling  that  other  day 
when  she  had  been  here  and  seen  it  like  a  figure 
through  a  mist.  It  was  evident  that  Barton  had  talked 
about  her  to  his  old  retainer.  Katie  owned  as  much. 
That  night  when  he  had  made  his  will,  he  had  told 
her  things.  Thyrza  could  see  that  she  was  a  precious 

311 


THE   STORY  OF   THYRZA 

charge.  Then  Katie  left  her  by  the  fire  and  went  to 
prepare  a  room  for  her,  and  Thyrza  presently  got  a 
candle  and  went  wandering  about  the  lower  part  of 
the  house.  Katie,  coming  down  for  more  wood,  found 
her  just  as  she  stood  in  the  great  west  parlor,  an 
awed  look  on  her  face. 

"  Why,"  said  Thyrza,  turning  in  the  simplicity  of 
her  wonder,  "  here  's  a  piano." 

Katie  nodded. 

"  It 's  tuned,"  she  said.  "  He  told  me  that  the  night 
he  died." 

"  Told  you  it  was  tuned?" 

"  Told  me  to  have  it  done.  '  Keep  the  piano  in 
order,'  he  says.  '  Keep  it  tuned.' ' 

Thyrza  knew  why.  It  was  for  her  coming.  She  went 
up  to  it  timidly,  opened  the  cover  and  struck  a  chord. 
It  was  not  a  new  piano,  but  it  had  been  wonderful  in 
its  time,  and  now  the  reedy  thrill  of  it  seemed  to 
summon  echoes  of  long  ago.  It  summoned  Barton's 
mother  and  with  her  the  little  boy  that  learned  to 
play  on  those  keys,  and  it  wakened,  too,  the  hosts  of 
Thyrza's  keen  desires  when  she  had  been  a  child  and 
all  doors  seemed  open  to  her.  Now  there  was  only  one 
door  open,  the  one  by  which  Barton  had  gone,  and 
the  way  to  it  looked  pleasant  and  the  portal  wreathed 
in  flowers. 

While  she  stood  there  and  Katie  went  pottering  off 
after  her  wood,  Thyrza  wondered  why  she  had  wanted 
a  piano :  whether  it  was  for  the  prisoned  music  in  it 
or  because  it  stood  for  some  of  the  unattained  rich- 

312 


THE   SISTERS 


ness  of  being  while  she  lived  meagrely  in  her  mother's 
house.  She  could  not  tell.  She  did  know  that  music 
reft  her  soul  away  and  carried  it  to  unimagined 
lands  where  new  desires  reigned.  It  was  always  desire 
with  her,  the  surge  of  life.  What  would  be  the  desires 
beyond  the  flower-wreathed  door?  But  Katie  came 
and  scolded  her  off  to  bed  because  the  sitting-room 
was  chill,  and  Thyrza  lay  in  her  great  four-poster 
wakefully  until  the  fire  flickered  down,  and  felt  she 
had  at  last  come  home. 

It  was  the  next  day,  when  her  trunks  had  been 
delivered  and  her  things  were  in  order  and  the  whole 
house  was  warmed  so  that  she  could  begin  living,  that 
Angelica's  telegram  came,  sent  on  from  Tretower. 
Angelica  was  of  the  sort  to  dart  at  every  invention  of 
the  mind  of  man  to  save  trouble  to  the  white  hand 
that  had  forgotten  labor.  Thyrza  looked  at  the  length 
of  the  message  and  wondered.  When  she  found  it 
came  from  Paris,  she  marveled  again,  because  it  had 
never  seemed  to  her  that  a  wire  had  been  laid  under 
the  sea  for  less  than  the  communication  of  international 
affairs.  But  this  was  the  death  of  no  potentate.  It  was 
all  about  Petrie,  of  whom  Angelica  wired  as  simply, 
though  she  did  not  use  his  name,  as  she  might  have 
talked  of  him  in  a  silence  behind  closed  doors.  She 
was  jubilant.  He  had  written  her  fully.  When  his 
job  was  over,  he  would  go  to  her  in  Paris.  They  would 
be  married  there.  They  would  probably  live  six  months 
of  every  year  abroad.  Thyrza  would  come  to  them.  But 
Thyrza  thought  she  should  not  go  to  them.  She  would 

313 


THE   STORY   OF  THYRZA 

stay  here,  the  custodian  and  lover  of  Barton  Gorse's 
house,  except  when  Laura  wanted  her.  It  might  yet  be 
a  lingering  way  to  the  flowery  door,  but  it  would  hardly 
be  Ions'  enough  for  her  to  read  books  and  make  her- 

O  O 

self  grand  for  Barton  Gorse  when,  as  he  had  promised, 
she  should  see  him  again.  Thyrza  cared  less  about 
books  than  she  had,  but  she  would  always  have  an 
awed  worship  of  what  she  called  the  intellectual  life. 
So  three  or  four  days  passed  in  a  sweet  solitude 

blooming  with  little  tasks.    She  and  Katie  became 
& 

the  kindest  friends,  and  Thyrza  at  once  seemed  to 
come  into  the  inheritance  of  loving  her  house.  She 
had  that  intimate  sense  of  its  possession  that  springs 
usually  only  with  inheritance  or  after  long  usage,  and 
she  began  to  have  visions  of  what  it  would  be  when 
Angelica  and  Petrie  invaded  it.  That  would  never 
be  for  long  at  a  time,  because  they  were  birds  of 
passage  in  this  keen  modern  air  that  tired  her 
but  only  helped  their  wings,  and  it  was  better  for 
Petrie  to  grow  up  with  Angelica  to  love  and  scold 
him.  Thyrza  was  still  a  little  afraid  of  Petrie,  because 
she  would  never  get  over  the  certainty  of  wronging 
him  by  bringing  him  into  the  world  with  no  inheritance ; 
but  if  he  frowned  over  Barton  Gorse  for  giving  her 
a  house,  there  would  be  Angelica  to  tell  him,  in  her  own 
and  Petrie's  language,  which  was  not  the  tongue  of 
Thyrza  at  all,  that  he  must  accept  a  part  of  his  mother's 
destiny. 

Meantime  the  minister  had  called,  and  Thyrza  had 
said  to  him  quite  simply,  not  to  court  disguises,  that 

314 


THE   SISTERS 


she  had  been  about  to  marry  Barton  Gorse  when  he 
died.  The  minister  knew  that.  The  doctor  had  told 
him,  and  it  became  apparent  that  here,  too,  in  his  one 
last  night  of  action,  Barton  Gorse  had  prepared  her 
way  for  her.  Even  while  she  was  talking  to  this 
authoritative  caller,  Thyrza' s  mind,  the  part  that  was 
always  in  tension,  watching,  holding  itself  ready  for 
the  assault,  warned  her  that  the  day  might  come  when 
her  tall  Petrie  would  walk  in  and  she  must  say  with 
out  flinching,  "  This  is  my  son."  But  that  might 
never  be  required  of  her.  She  was  beginning  to 
believe  in  the  beneficence  of  things. 

It  was  a  day  she  always  remembered  as  the  one 
with  the  beautiful  sunset,  when  some  one  else  came. 
Thyrza  thought  she  had  never  in  her  life  seen  such  a 
flaming  west  nor  such  rivers  of  various  color  flowing 
together  under  the  lucent  skyey  green.  She  had  gone 
into  the  porch  to  look  at  it  when  she  saw  a  figure 
walking  toward  her  as  if  it  came,  taking  the  curving 
driveway,  out  of  the  west  itself.  At  first,  it  loomed, 
through  some  optical  illusion,  very  large,  and  by  its 
veiled  face  and  cloaked  figure,  gave  Thyrza,  with  a  throb 
of  the  heart,  a  memory  of  one  of  the  three  sisters  she 
had  grown  used  to  seeing,  sitting  in  her  room  ready 
to  walk  with  her  or  wait  for  her,  but  never  to  leave 
her  free.  It  came  closer  and  lessened,  as  it  neared, 
into  the  figure  of  a  woman  shrouded  from  the  cold, 
and  Thyrza  smiled,  because  it  seemed  again  an  omen 
that  the  last  Fury  left  had  dwindled  into  something 
human  like  herself.  The  woman  walked  rapidly,  and 

315 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

seeing  Thyrza,  threw  up  her  shrouding  veil  and  came 
the  faster. 

"  Laura !  Laura  !  " 

She  ran  down  the  steps,  and  at  the  foot  they  met. 
Laura  looked  curiously  old-fashioned,  for  the  veil  she 
had  thrown  over  her  bonnet  was  an  embroidered  one 
that  had  been,  Thyrza  knew,  their  grandmother's  at 
least.  It  might  have  been  for  warmth,  but  Thyrza 
thought  it  looked  like  mourning.  She  drew  Laura  in, 
with  no  more  words,  and  put  her  by  the  blazing 
hearth.  There  Laura  seemed  older  and  half-terrified, 
as  if  she  were  unused  to  taking  impulsive  steps  and 
realized  this  was  one.  She  had  dragged  her  bonnet 
hastily  off,  and  her  hair,  rumpled  beneath,  gave  her 
a  disordered  look.  Thyrza  thought  she  was  ill  with 
tiredness.  They  hardly  spoke  together  until  her  things 
were  put  away,  and  Thyrza  had  urged  the  fire  to  a 
brighter  opulence.  Laura,  watching  her  half-abstract- 
edly,  and  yet  as  if  every  motion  were  to  be  prized 
because  time  had  so  starved  her  of  sisterly  companion 
ship,  now  when  the  fire  was  piled  and  Thyrza,  from 
a  cricket,  turned  up  to  her  a  brightly  expectant  face, 
let  her  hands  fall  in  her  lap  in  what  seemed  relin- 
quishment.  They  lay  there  as  if  glad  to  find  no 
use  for  their  practiced  skill.  She,  too,  was  smiling  a 
little,  faintly,  but  in  an  eager  way  as  if  she  saw 
reasons  for  beseeching  Thyrza  to  let  them  both  be 
happy. 

"Well,"  said  she,  "this  is  a  great  undertakin'." 

Thyrza  hardly  dared  respond,  even  by  a  thought. 

316 


THE   SISTERS 


Why  had  Laura  come?    "  What  is  it,  dear  ?  "  she  man 
aged  to  ask  faintly.    "  What  have  you  undertaken  ?  " 

"  Comin'  here/'  said  Laura.  She  was  really  smiling 
now.  "  Packin'  me  a  bag  an'  takin'  the  cars  an'  all. 
I  got  so  worried." 

Had  Laura  come  to  ask  dreadful  questions  ?  If  she 
had,  Thyrza  knew  she  must  keep  warm  arms  about 
her  sister  until  they  both  could  understand  there  was 
nothing  to  be  feared,  even  in  such  clash  and  coil  of 
circumstance.  It  seemed  possible  at  last  to  trust 
everybody  with  the  biggest  secrets,  to  make  the  most 
tremendous  challenges.  Yet  her  heart  beat  miserably, 
and  it  was  only  when  Laura  spoke  again  that  she 
could  find  the  breath  to  answer. 

"  Well,  I  thought  it  out,  dear,  your  comin'  to  this 
big  house  all  soul  alone,  an'  seemed  as  if  I'd  got  to 
drop  in  an'  see  how  'twas  with  you." 

" Oh,  is  that  true,  Laura?  is  that  true?"  Thyrza 
cried  wildly.  "  Oh,  how  dear  you  were !  " 

Again  she  hoped  the  storm  had  passed  her  by  and 
somehow,  for  good,  until  perhaps  she  and  Laura  met 
within  the  door  Barton  Gorse  had  opened  and  could 
smile  at  all  these  play-house  sorrows. 

"  But,"  said  Laura,  "  there  's  somethin'  else." 

Now  it  had  come.  Thyrza  knew  that  as  well  as  if 
the  words  were  on  the  air. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "  Say  it,  Laura.  Say  it  quick 
and  get  it  over." 

Laura  was  ready.  She  had  framed  her  simple 
question. 

317 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

"  Thyrza,  what 's  set  him  ag'inst  you  so  ?  " 

Thyrza  made  no  play  at  obscurity.  She  sat  now 
with  her  gaze  on  the  hearth,  thinking,  in  a  desperate 
concentration.  The  firelight  flushed  to  crimson  the 
cheek  it  touched,  and  she  got  up  finally  and  moved 
outside  its  range.  Then  she  sat  down  in  a  chair  at 
the  other  side  of  the  hearth. 

"  So,"  she  mused,  "  Andy  's  set  against  me  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Or,  no.  maybe  it  ain't  wholly  that.  Sometimes 
I  've  surmised  it  ain't  that  at  all.  But  it 's  somethin'. 
Seems  if  I  could  n't  bear  to  have  Andy  die,  maybe, 
an'  not  at  peace  with  my  own  sister.  I  could  n't  bear 
to  die  myself  an'  think  he  was  unforgivin'." 

"  Andy  has  n't  anything  to  forgive  me  for,"  said 
Thyrza,  as  simply  as  she  would  have  reassured  a 
child. 

Laura  was  musing  still.  Thyrza  considered  for  a 
moment.  Then  she  went  on. 

"  Andy  has  n't  seen  me,  Laura,  since  Petrie  was 
born.  I  guess  he  never 's  wanted  to." 

Laura  was  folio  wing  out  her  own  stumbling  thoughts, 
doggedly,  as  if  she  could  see  them  to  their  conclusion 
only  as  she  went  unaided. 

"  Andy  's  a  good  man  himself,"  she  brooded,  "  but 
he  never  was  one  to  be  hard  on  folks'  failin's,  even 
the  worst.  What 's  made  him  hard  on  you  ?  " 

"  We  can't  talk  about  it,"  cried  Thyrza.  Her  voice 
rang  out  and  frightened  her.  By  a  curious  inversion,  the 
sound  seemed  to  indicate  a  return  of  her  old  fears  and 
angers.  She  admonished  it  to  be  gentle.  "  Laura !  " 

318 


THE   SISTERS 


There  was  a  question  she  had  meant  to  ask  once 
only,  if  it  were  possible.  It  seemed  as  if  the  answer 
might  reassure  and  strengthen  her. 

"Well?" 

"  Have  you  been  happy  with  Andy  ?  " 

Laura  looked  at  her  in  a  perfect  clarity. 

"  Thyrza,"  said  she,  "  Andy  's  rough  an'  he  's  care 
less,  but  he  's  been  a  good  husband  to  me  —  as  good 
as  ever  stepped." 

"  I  don't  mean  that.  Folks  can  be  good  folks,  but 
that  don't  make  us  happy  with  'em.  Have  you  been 
contented  ?  " 

Laura  kept  that  earnest  look.  She  seemed  to  be 
charging  herself,  in  the  measure  of  Thyrza's  vehe 
mence,  to  answer  with  a  nicety  of  truth. 

"  I  Ve  been  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long.  He  's  had 
his  black  times,  Andy  has.  Once  he  said  he  used  to 
feel  when  he  was  young  he  was  half-drunk  all  the 
time,  he  was  so  rugged.  c  But,'  he  says, '  I  got  sobered 
quick  enough.'  I  don't  know  what  sobered  him. 
Maybe  't  was  losin'  money  an'  all,  an'  havin'  things 
come  out  the  little  end  o'  the  horn  about  the  new 
house.  Thyrza,"  —  She  was  looking  into  the  fire 
now  —  "  what  do  you  s'pose  made  Barton  Gorse  give 
me  that  legacy  ?  " 

"He  wanted  to,"  Thyrza  temporized.  "He  felt 
kindly  towards  you,  Laura." 

"  Why,  he  did  n't  hardly  know  me.  He  had  n't  begun 
to  give  you  lessons  when  I  went  away  with  great- 
aunt  Mary." 

319 


THE  STORY  OF  THYRZA 

u  He  knew  how  much  I  set  by  you.  Never  mind, 
if  it 's  going  to  be  some  use." 

"  I  guess  it  is !  Everything 's  mortgaged  an'  has 
been  nigh  onto  ten  years  now.  It 's  a  godsend.  But 
there  's  another  queer  thing  about  that  —  Andy  says 
he  '11  be  whipped  if  he  '11  touch  a  cent  of  it.  He  says 
it's  all  goin'  into  the  savin's  bank  in  my  name." 

Katie  came  in  to  tell  them  supper  was  ready,  and 
Thyrza  said  to  her,  — 

"  You  remember  my  sister,  Katie.  She  's  come  to 
make  me  a  visit.  We  have  n't  been  able  to  see  each 
other  for  years,  but  she'll  be  here  a  great  deal  now." 

Katie  looked  at  them  kindly. 

u  Well,"  said  she,  "  God  never  shuts  one  door  but 
he  opens  another." 

Then  they  went  out  to  supper,  and  Laura  could 
hardly  eat,  and  certainly  could  not  talk,  because  of 
her  wonder  over  the  exquisite  table,  its  damask  and 
bright  silver.  Once  or  twice  she  hid  her  worn  hands 

o 

under  the  cloth,  when  she  thought  Katie  might  be 
looking  and  judging  her  for  not  growing  up  more  of 
a  lady  ;  but  Thyrza  was  so  calm  that  presently  she,  too, 
could  be. 

Her  room  was  opposite  Thyrza's,  with  the  hall 
between,  and  when  they  were  undressed  Thyrza  went 
across  the  way,  her  hair  hanging,  and  brush  in  hand. 
She  felt  little  and  young,  and  she  wanted  to  gossip 
as  they  used  to,  only  that  was  in  whispers  lest  their 
mother  should  call  to  them  to  go  right  straight  off  to 
sleep.  Laura,  in  her  nightgown,  her  face  flushed  by 

320 


THE   SISTERS 


the  fire,  was  younger  than  the  woman  in  the  figured 
veil. 

"  Mercy,  Thyrza,"  she  said,  "  you  don't  mean  to  tell 
me  you  've  kep'  up  brushin'  your  hair  at  night,  hard 
as  you  've  worked." 

"Every  night,"  Thyrza  smiled.  She  had  wanted  to 
hold  fast  to  every  nicety  of  habit  because  she  was 
Petrie's  mother. 

"Well,  I  ain't,"  said  Laura.  She  sat  down  in  the 
big  hooded  chair  by  the  fire,  and  Thyrza  wrapped  a 
shawl  about  her.  "I've  been  so  tired,  for  the  last 
twenty  years,  I  could  n't  do  any  more  'n  tumble  into 
bed.  Thyrza,  what  made  you  say  that  to  old  Katie?  " 

"What,  Laura?" 

"  About  my  bein'  here  considerable." 

"  You  're  going  to  be,"  Thyrza  cried,  with  unaffected 
appeal.  "  Why,  whatever  should  I  do  if  you  were  n't  ? 
Of  course  you  '11  be  here  every  minute  he  can  spare 

you." 

"You  see,  I  just  packed  my  bag  an'  took  the  train, 
because  seemed  as  if  I  had  to  touch  you.  There  was 
another  reason,  too.  But  I  never  so  much  as  thought 
you  'd  say  a  thing  like  that." 

"  You  're  all  I '  ve  got  to  make  a  home  with." 

"  You  've  got  Petrie." 

"  Petrie  '11  be  away.  He  's  one  of  the  roving  kind." 

"  Andy  was,"  Laura  said,  her  mind  going  inevit 
ably  back.  "  Sometimes  I  've  though  the  never  was  the 
man  to  settle  down  in  one  spot.  Thyrza ! "  Now  the 
moment  had  really  come.  Thyrza  quailed  before  it 

321 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

with  an  inherited  pang,  because  the  gentle  voice  had 
in  it  a  mandatory  note  lent  it  by  trouble.  It  seemed 
a  family  voice,  mother's,  perhaps,  bidding  them  come 
in  out  of  the  dew,  or  great-aunt  Mary's  even,  echoing 
with  some  truism  to  the  effect  that  they  must  heed 
and  obey.  "  Thyrza,"  the  voice  relentlessly  continued, 
"  if  you  know  anything  ag'inst  Andy  that  makes  him 
loath  to  face  you,  you  tell  me  now." 

The  fire  leaped  and  fell,  to  vault  again,  and  the 
answering  shadows  looked  like  uncouth  shapes  com 
missioned  to  a  mad  authority.  They  ran  over  the 
peaceful  room  and  wrought  unmeaning  havoc  with  it. 
The  flowers  on  the  wall-paper  moved  to  show  they 
were  alive  in  some  new,  unhappy  way,  and  the  window- 
curtains  seemed  to  tremble  as  if  there  were  hands 
upon  them. 

Thyrza,  without  premeditation,  was  on  her  knees 
at  her  sister's  side,  swept  by  a  thousand  impulses, 
commanded  by  as  many  voices.  The  voices  chorused 
at  her,  but  in  harmony.  Barton  Gorse  was  smilingly, 
whimsically  even,  reminding  her  again  that  grief  was 
only  the  root  of  something  bound  to  blossom  glori 
ously  ;  her  mother  was  telling  her  in  homely  speech 
to  "play  kind  and  pretty"  with  her  sister,  and 
Angelica's  clear,  brilliant  note,  overtopping  the  others, 
bade  her  remember  there  were  ways  of  doing  things 
well  when  you  needed  to  do  them  at  all.  That  voice 
of  Angelica's,  touched  with  color  like  little  points  of 
light,  was  urging  her  to  move  cleverly,  delighting,  if 
she  could,  in  the  game,  and  she,  more  even  than  the 

322 


THE   SISTERS 


others,  made  it  seem  as  if  the  devil  of  tragedy  were 
the  adversary  and  Thyrza  must  outwit  him.  Also 
Thyrza  seemed  to  be  on  her  knees,  not  to  Laura  but 
in  the  humble  house  of  life  Laura  had  built,  kneeling 
there  and  with  both  her  hands  washing  it  to  make  it 
clean,  praying  in  it  that  she  might  help  to  keep  it 
holy.  Now  she  lifted  her  head  and  looked  at  her 
sister,  laughing  a  little,  unaffectedly.  Angelica,  she 
knew,  was  showing  her  that  device.  She  chose  their 
childhood's  speech,  to  send  her  darts  the  straighter. 

"  Laura,"  —  now  she  laughed  again,  —  "don't  you 
know  what  men-folks  are  ?  Once  you  wear  'em  out 
they  take  to  their  heels,  and  that 's  the  last  you  see 
of  'em.  When  we  were  little,  you  and  Andy  were  for 
ever  getting  up  projects  together,  and  I  was  forever 
under  foot.  I  guess  Andy  had  enough  of  me  then,  so 
it's  lasted  till  this  day.  Men-folks  don't  reason.  They 
just  act." 

"  Well,"  said  Laura,  in  a  trembling  clutch  at  a 
responsive  gayety,  "  seems  if  they  acted  pretty  foolish 
sometimes." 

She  was  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  shaking  all  over 
with  long  shudders.  Thyrza  laid  a  hand  on  each  of 
her  wrists,  and  holding  her  so,  looked  at  her  fixedly. 

"  Laura,"  she  said,  "there  is  n't  a  thing  in  the  world 
I  blame  Andy  for,  not  a  thing.  You  remember  that. 
If  ever  there 's  any  need  of  it,  you  tell  him  so."  But 
as  she  said  it  she  knew  there  was  no  need.  The  danger 
had  gone  by.  Her  laugh  had  banished  it. 

"  Maybe  I  Ve  been  a  fool,"  said  Laura.  The  shud- 
323 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

ders,  quieting  now,  were  little  more  than  breaths, 
half-laughing  ones.  Now  wifely  loyalty  came  flooding 
back,  and  she  cried  jealously,  "  I  was  goin'  to  say  if 
you  thought  you  knew  anything,  it  wa'n't  true.  I 
could  show  you  it  wa'n't  true." 

Thyrza  came  to  her  feet  and  sank  soberly  into  a 
chair.  The  fire  had  quieted  into  a  warm-hearted  glow, 
and  the  room  seemed  stiller,  in  some  way,  the  flowers 
on  the  walls  fixed  in  a  garden  of  their  own,  and  the 
window-curtains  like  watchers  keeping  out  the  dark 
and  cold.  Laura  was  reflecting  in  a  relief  as  different 
as  possible  from  the  mood  just  dissipated,  and  Thyrza's 
face,  reddened  from  the  fire  and  shadowed  by  its  dark 
hair,  seemed  to  arrest  her  gaze. 

"  Why,  Thyrza,"  said  she, "  you  look  terrible  young." 

"  You  will  now  you  're  going  to  have  an  easier 
time,"  said  Thyrza,  and  then  threw  in  a  phrase  of 
their  mother's,  "  when  you  get  'cruited  up." 

"  I  feel  as  old  as  the  hills,"  Laura  confessed,  with 
a  little  amused  laugh  at  their  plight  of  coming  age. 
It  was  the  first  laugh  Thyrza  had  heard  from  her,  and 
she  loved  it.  "  Seems  if  't  would  be  kind  o'  restful  to 
grow  old." 

Thyrza  considered  for  a  moment. 

"  I  don't  know  but  I  should  like  to  grow  old,  too," 
she  said. 

"  It  come  to  me  the  other  day,  that  women  give 
over  bein'  young  when  they  get  through  with  men- 
folks.  Well,  you've  got  through,  Thyrza.  It  ain't 
likely  you  '11  take  notice  again." 

324 


THE   SISTERS 


"  No,"  said  Thyrza.  She  laughed  a  little,  tenderly. 
It  seemed  to  her  as  if  there  could  hardly  be  minutes 
enough  in  the  longest  day  to  reassure  Laura  from  her 
long  timidity  at  life,  to  entertain  and  serve  her.  "  Let 's 
play  we  're  mother,"  she  said.  "  You  play  it  this  visit 
and  I  will  next  time." 

Laura  smiled  then. 

"  You  was  always  one  to  keep  things  goin',"  she 
said.  "  I  guess  you  never  'd  want  to  dress  the  way 
mother  did,  come  to  that.  You've  got  a  terrible  gay 
hat  an'  cloak." 

"  I  shan't  wear  'em  any  more,"  said  Thyrza  ear 
nestly,  "  not  unless  —  " 

"  Unless  what,  dear?" 

"Unless  Petrie  and  his  wife  want  I  should."  She 
flushed  with  pride  when  she  spoke  of  Petrie's  wife. 

Laura  smiled  again  at  her,  in  great  fondness. 

"  I  guess  you  '11  wear  'em  out,"  she  prophesied. 
66 1  'm  an  old  woman,  Thyrza.  It  ain't  years  that 
change  us ;  it's  what  you've  been  through." 

Thyrza  could  not  answer.  It  seemed  to  her  she  had 
been  through  enough. 

"  You  was  always  one  to  rise  on  the  top  o'  the 
wave,"  said  Laura,  ruminating.  "I  shouldn't  be  sur 
prised  if  you  had  considerable  life  yet." 

Thyrza  wondered.  She  could  see  herself  here  with 
Margaret  Petrie,  who  had  just  written  that  she 
was  coming  home,  with  Laura,  too,  in  jealously  de 
sired  intervals.  Others  would  come.  Margaret  Petrie 
would  draw  them  by  her  divine,  fantastic  kindness, 

325 


THE   STORY   OF   THYRZA 

and  they  could  rest  and  go  their  ways  again  sure- 
f  ootedly.  Perhaps  thousands  of  pilgrims  would  come, 
or  even  one  or  two  superlatively  weary,  and  Thyrza 
could  be  allowed  to  read  to  them  from  the  illuminated 
missal  of  her  hope.  But  there  was  another  path.  That, 
too,  she  saw  open  to  her.  Petrie  and  Angelica  might 
summon  her,  and  she  guessed  how  Angelica  would 
adorn  her,  telling  her  age  had  its  own  beauty.  The 
road  would  lead  her  out  into  the  world,  and  she  knew 
Barton  Gorse  would  wish  her  to  go,  and  that  she 
should  strangely  find  his  footprints  there  at  the 
shrines  art  had  adorned  and  prayed  before.  It  would 
be  like  lingering  through  long  galleries  where  every 
picture  told  her  some  story  of  what  he  had  learned 
or  loved  light-heartedly ;  that  might  ensure  her  a 
more  perfect  kinship  with  him  when  they  should 
meet  at  last.  Yet  here  she  paused,  remembering  that 
their  harmony  in  that  day  would  spring  from  some 
thing  simpler  still — the  old,  old  love  of  righteous 
ness. 

Perhaps  Laura,  too,  would  go  journeying  with  her, 
and  gasp  over  the  wonders  of  the  earth  so  faintly 
set  forth  by  her  school  geography.  Whatever  hap 
pened,  it  was  all  simple  and  plain  because  Barton 
Gorse  had  seemed  to  explain  it  to  her,  and  at  the  end 
there  would  be  the  flowery  door  and  Barton  Gorse  to 
show  her  other  ways. 

She  came  to  herself  with  a  start.  Laura  was  regard 
ing  her  benevolently. 

"I  guess  you  'most  dropped  off,"  she  said. 

326 


THE   SISTERS 


Thyrza  braided  her  hair  and  tossed  it  back  over 
her  shoulder.  She  rose  to  say  good-night. 

"  Laura ! " 

"What  is  it?" 

"  What  if  you  and  I  should  sleep  together  just 
to-night  same 's  we  used  to  ?  " 

Laura  was  looking  at  her  with  suffused  eyes,  all 
longing  and  understanding. 

"  I  guess  we  better,"  she  agreed.  "  I  'm  the  biggest. 
I  '11  put  my  arm  over  you." 

Thyrza  nodded. 

"  Same  as  mother  used  to." 


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